In this fog of fiscal drag
As tax and growth divorce, I see
The state is making a tidy sum
Out of our poverty and I feel in my bum
A boiling anger, uncontrolled,
As demand, though stable,
Fails to supply food on the table
Except in the house of Lord and Lady
Hench.
When anger turns to power
This is the hour, indeed the very second,
Of revolution.
There is no hate when there is love
Returned; but love looks after hate
When neither love nor hate can find
Anchor in the heart or mind.
My own view, speaking as a liberal, is that change
Needs wheels, otherwise society simply
Goes off the rails and gardeners become lairds,
The poor become rich, Lady Hench
Becomes the footman’s bitch and the order of things
Is disturbed.
The people’s righteous anger must be curbed.
Here is my recipe. Val Doonican on a stool,
Surveying the tumult and making it pacific,
Like stout Cortez and his eagles and his friend, Darien .
No deaths will be recorded on this day,
All children will be free to laugh and play,
All dumb, downtrodden diggers will have their say
And fiscal drag will take a hint,
After its sadistic stint,
And pack its bags and go away.
And now the anger in my bum
Boils over, the ring splutters, goes out
And gas spreads like clotted cream
Till all is dead and all
Is serene.
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