Monday, 29 July 2013

The boy lays still,
Only 11 years old.
Your knees start to shake,
Your forehead is cold.
You tap tap tap,
Nine nine nine,
No voice to greet you,
A dull, dead line.

Back at home,
Your father arrives.
Click goes the lock,
Of the Audi he drives.
Overly stuffed wallet,
The tax he forgot to pay,
To his off shore account,
For another rainy day.

Just thought about yourselves,
'Cos it's fine for you.
Food, water, shelter,
Cars and ponies too.
Still the boy lays,
Half dead like prey.
Much less important,
Than your rainy day.

Your selfish views,
Your twisted ways,
Leave him there,
Maybe for days.
You voted for cuts,
That would kill the poor,
Here's one in front of you,
Half dead on the floor.

This boy doesn't matter,
You hear Grandma say.
In this house here,
We'll all be ok.
No NHS needed,
Bupa will save us.
This dying poor boy doesn't matter,
So what's with all the fuss?

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