in any middle-class backyard. The dirt estates,
where living is sky high, 13 floors up in a piss-stained
lift that stinks of filth. They live anywhere the coppers
daren't come, where dodgy goods can be sold, unhassled,
in pubs and NCPs. It's a fluid market of heroin for TVs
taxed from houses in less affordable postcodes.
Here cash4gold flows through fingers like vodka
tumbles down throats. Each day they try
and plaster the waterfall, try breaking even, but nothing helps.
No-one helps. The most desperate chuck themselves off,
solve their misery in one final leap. The tabloids they read
call them mad or evil, pap them living their high-life
on dole sponsored caviar and Lidl baked beans.
They aren't helpless, just hopeless. Even key workers,
who brave staffies in rooms they'd refuse, won't bring money,
just scorn for their parenting. Nobody listens to anger.
The poor. The worst of the litter. Gas them! Wouldn't it be easier?
No comments:
Post a Comment