I am annoyed, to think you toyed, with emotions I could not control.

So perplexed, and even vexed, I thought you were the half to make me whole.

Now it’s straight, you weren’t my mate, but a fool with intent to hurt me.

I was the dolt, that was hit by the bolt, of lightning that said, eternity.

Back to my misery,  I wasn’t the visionary,  that I had come to believe.

Bitterness and isolation, are now my station, as I wear my heart upon my sleeve.

The tears will dry, and so will I, a wet no longer to be rated.

This is the end, you that I called a friend, low on sadness, now exasperated.


Bedroom Tax.

Bedroom tax the basic facts.

It not a tax, so you can relax,

or at least that/s what Duncan Smith portrays.

Yet surely it is in fact a nasty act,

designed to kick the poorest hard.

Spare room or not is the question?

Surely a matter to cause objection!

We need the poor to move more,

especially in London where we score.

Smaller homes, living like gnomes,

back to the back-to-back, is the attack.

The poor don’t get visitors or entertain,

that’s ours, the rich’s domain.

So live in squalor and please don’t holler.

Take what we give you, and be glad.

We are the millionaires, you are the bad.

Today it’s you bedrooms, tomorrow your home,

no legal recourse cause the aid is gone.

Back to a time when you begged us to work,

your children at our call from the time of their birth.

This is the beginning of the end for you folk.

The rich won the war, the poor wear the yoke.

So dream of celebrity and money with fame.

It’s all unattainable, just the illusions of the game.