Monday 19 December 2022

Broken Britain

 


The snows of despair fall.

Cold air and blanket death shawl.

The forecast gloomy,

economic cold wind

blows right through me.

Here in broken Britain,

Its Eat or heat.

Nurses at food banks,

extra socks to warm frozen feet.

A warm room

or a plateful of gruel to consume.

Whilst faucets shed icicle tears

and fat cats grin ear to ear

all the way to the bank.

 

No deliveries for days,

strike action underway.

Can't go away,

trains not running today.

Daily Mail are up in arms

these strikers are causing our country harm,

typical sleazy tory scum.

A den of iniquity, this private crime lords club.

Lying, gaslighting,

pushing the blame upon anyone.

But themselves.

Where people are struggling to survive

whilst bigwigs worry more about their economy drive.

 

This is broken Britain.

Unlevel playing field, them at the top

us not able to climb all the way up.

Tory heaven. Think our health service is a plaything,

The parts for selling.

Have us fighting, screaming and yelling

instead of standing hand in hand.

It's not the homeless or the unemployed.

It's not the strikers, just trying to get

their hard-earned rewards.

It's the men in suits.

Stamping out our lights,

under their thick heavy boots.

 

This is broken Britain.

Not the immigrants just seeking safety

but our leaders who don’t seem to mind a little tragedy

as long as it pays them handsomely.

The media circus has got to stop.

The clowns should be marched to the chop.

 

This is broken Britain.

People freezing.

Because rich men

want just a bit more

but there is never enough

to help the poor.

(Always enough to fight a war)

(Always some in store

if Tory cronies need their

bank accounts to soar)

 

This is broken Britain

On our knees, exactly as they want us.

Begging pleas laughed off by Etonian toffs.

As they skip off to their second homes.

Well heated one would assume.

Bring the strikes I say.

Let broken Britain unite today.

Let's hit these suits where it hurts.

In the pockets.

Let them feel the shame

of scrabbling in the dirt.

 

Broken Britain is being dragged through the grime.

Where race is used to sell papers

and dodgy dukes do no time

but God forbid you stand up

and say that race hate isn't okay,

dare to say you were treated unfairly.

They will turn the blame squarely

back on you.

And if you are pushed to the brink.

They won't stop. Just try to make you jump.

It makes you think,

or at least it should.

There is nothing great about this place,

not even much that is good.

 

 

Thanks for reading

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Peace, Love and Poetry 
 
Kyle
 
 

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