I cant stop writing like tapping your foot or slamming your head hard against wood.
They wouldnt say we’re “Very” poor , obesity can say for sure.
I crossed the line
I didn’t care to read the signs
disillusioned by all my rhymes
guilty of my sickly crimes.
Perhaps if I re spun the dial
waited for a little while
and through the crackling static said
go to the forth and baptize your head
with the spilled blood of the dead.
Would you rather see your taxes go
to a sick man
arise poor soul.
Or see your hard working honest gold.
Slide into a stoic MPs pocket.
Damn those civil servants too
the heartless policeman
the shitty nurse
the lawyer with a bulging purse.
I wouldn’t preach to being proud of the poor
oh for goodness sake will you shut the front door.
Your desperation has leaked all over my nice floor.
I feel guilty are words you’ve never said
My poems are all stained in red.
Surely the day will one day come
we’ll bleed our veins
for our little ones.
Oh you’ll be sorry
through the muffled silence
I think that is what he said
when your children are crying I’ll turn away my head.
And cruelly smile.
Perhaps if I re spun the dial.