A life of drudgery down at the office, For a middle-class semi with a fence and a lawn, With kids in school and a well-waxed Morris And two weeks of sun – to payback for the yawn. That was the deal – the promise of Capital – One wage to raise a family of four, And careers of tedium, long and unflappable – Safe from starvation, detention, and war. All over now. The deal is defaulted – All of the grafting, none of the perks. The overdose of greed saw progress halted, As the wageslave’s lot is lost in the works.
This sketching-pad was once a shirt, This watermark a tablecloth – The threadbare rags of moth Shall live again. As paper of the better sort, Quite fit for constitutions, And for banknote distributions – It’s in the grain.
Yet when the papers bear the news, The ‘rags’ are from the gutter press – This label calls them worthless In one gulp. Strange, how the insult goes, Yet fittingly, it also lied – We’ll find no cotton pride Within their pulp.
detail from John Kay, Inventor of the Fly Shuttle by Ford Madox-Brown
Ravelling
Penelope just cannot seem To stitch the seam to stop her shroud – She warps her wefts and weaves her wools, And intermingles through the crowd. But somehow, she can’t cast them off, Who team around her loom – They watch her fingers thread and pull, To spin the fabric of the tomb.
You advertised a vacancy, And I, with hope, applied. I sent you my complete CV, And I never even lied. I’ve oodles of experience, I’ve done the thing you do – But the algorithm closed the fence Without an interview.
I guess a hundred thousand others All could do your job So how am I to rise above, The ever-hungry mob ? I guess I’m lacking bullshit, And my buzzwords are too few – So the algorithm doesn’t hit My name for interview.
I send out applications For the slightest likelihoods – But they only yield frustrations – Cos I’m clearly damaged goods. I guess by now I should have learned My usefulness is through As the algorithm once more spurned My chance of interview.
You advertise a vacancy, And I, with gloom, apply – Though it’s only a formality That makes me even try. For the algorithm, it appears, Just loves to turn the screw, And will never in a thousand years Bestow an interview.
I’m not a fan of the big road pushing through the valley floor – It should have been a high-speed rail line. But just what have you got against a chip-set factory ? And the jobs that get to work while you just whine. I guess the loss of green and habitat’s a shame, for sure, But your farm was pretty monocultured too – The world needs fewer humans, as I hope you would agree, And a lot less of consumption, making-do. We haven’t all got daddies leaving farms to us, and more, No, we many have us very little leeway. So take your million-dollars and your nimby don’t-tax-me – Cos this ain’t your farm no more – now it’s our freeway.
I do love my wife, I don’t hide my ring – But the thing is, she’s not here. I get so lonely on endless business trips, So short of cheer. Then Rachel from the presentation Pops into the bar, And the smiles come all-so-easily On the verge of gone-too-far.
But I, it seems, with my guilty conscience, Cannot just kick back, And seize the moment, live the day, With Zoë in the sack. I reckon I could have been that hound, I could have learned to lie – My wife would never even suss, If I’d grow the balls to try.
Somewhere in his hotel room tonight, There’s another me Who’s shares his bed with maybe Jane from Sales, And with liberty. I hate him, and I hate how I envy, While chatting with a girl in red, And I try not to give-off some signal of all That I wish we were doing instead.
I do love our wife, I remind myself, As I think how he’s not alone. We’d both spent a hour in the bar with Kaz, As we muted our mobile phone, With plenty of eye-to-eye, and gin, And far too at-our-ease – But where he fulfilled his promise to Kaz, I proved to be just a tease.
I wanted to work in herbaceous control, Where I would keep track Of the landscape’s needs. I sent out letters for any such role, But all I got back Were tumbleweeds.
I wanted to work with invertebrates, Recording each fly In the council’s thickets. I sent my CV to associates, But the only reply Was the chirp of crickets.
I wanted to work on stellar stations, To be employed As a space engineer – I sent out a thousand applications, But into the void They would disappear.
I wanted to work in an int’resting job And proceeded to chase For ev’ry scheme. But the world just told me to shut my gob, And to know my place, And to never dream.
General Post Office, Lombard Street, London by Thomas Rowlandson
UBI
I can’t imagine having a job I like enough to go on strike – If you want it, come and get it, I’ll be on my bike. I guess I’m lucky enough to know I can always find another one – It’s just as rubbish as the last, But then, who works for fun ?
I can’t imagine having a job, In any worthwhile medium – Is there dignity in labour ? Sure, But far more tedium. I know some folks who love their work, But I can’t plug into that socket – Am I enriching the world right now, Or just my boss’s pocket ?
I can’t imagine having a job, Except to keep me warm and fed – Just think of all I could achieve, If I only stayed in bed ! Time’s too short to not be treasure – Count the moments, not the weeks… Let’s live our lives for love and leisure, Like the ancient Greeks !
I found this image as a banner for former Cambridge councillor Sam Davies, but cannot find a credit for it.
Just Another Election Day
Always on Thursdays, these days, Always a busy day in the week – It’s just the fate of the next five years, So best to keep it meek. Never a public holiday, We don’t want to make a fuss – Just pop-in, if you think you can spare the time On your way to the bus.
We see the early-morning party leaders Be the first to the poles – Fulfilling their photogenic roles, Though too late for the newspaper-readers, Whose headlines show the colours of their souls.
So the bookworms are shunned from the lib’ries, And the kids kicked-out of the schools, As the powers that be, begrudgingly, Let us have a say in the rules. It’s all so British and half-cocked, All ashamed of the rallies and cheers – Just cast your vote in silence, Then shut-up for five more years.
And the highlight of the day, Are all the dogs who wait so patiently By the signs in heavy font on the TV, As their owners have their say – While a third of us stay home in apathy.
Rhyming Couplets 