The Voice That Galls
To the voice on the radio,
Sheltered in your suit
And silken in the tie
That keeps our wrists in bondage:
You say you know our heartfelt headache
As we live hand to mouth
But ask us not to make a meal of it.
Well just enough to feed myself, sir.
Perhaps my wife and kids.
And I suppose if they thirsty
They can kiss my crying eyelids
Or put out their hand
And await the meter stick
As you ask what’s the problem?
I thought your skin was thick?
And give cues to the queues
Outside the dole office;
“Here are your cards,
Now deal with it.
And if you don’t like the game,
Well we’ve got boats and planes
And numbers for your name.”
Since you’ve made us sweat for our stay,
You can put up with the smell beneath our arms
As we stand outside and smoke
And recall the voice that galls
And let soak what it spoke
As it tells us red is blue;
That these oppressive measures
Are benefitting you.
And gently pat the shoulders
Of the green jackets
Worn in fear of being pissed on
From a height.
Well you can suffer the piercing pitches
As the workers whistle charms,
But who’ll silence the alarms?
As you count the cash,
Put it in a hungry hand:
Tell it to sweep up the broken glass.
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Featured Image: Jason Rosewell (CC0)