I remember dreaming, Back in my later-teens – I thought that I could be anything, anything – God, it was good to be alive ! My many futures were teeming – Cos I had the smarts, and I had the means, To take this world and make her sing ! All I needed was muscle and drive.
That’s why they’re called dreams, I guess… Cos waking up is such a bitch. Nobody cares what we have to bring, Just suck on beige till we love the taste. We’re nothing. We’re just a cog in a press Whose job is to make some others rich. I thought that I could be anything, anything – God, what a pointless waste.
Study hard, they said, and so we did, And it didn’t help at all. Be positive, beguile and kid – Yet we still went to the wall. Keep looking for the chance, they say, As if just saying makes it so – Don’t let your dreams all slip away, As if they hadn’t, long ago. If they can land such good careers, Then why, they like to ask, can’t we ? As if a job like theirs appears With unrelenting frequency. For us, we get to spend our years neck-deep In drudgery and stress, Where days are long and lives are cheap, And no-one ever tells us yes.
But surely there must be another side, That’s free from the pounds and the pence ? Where we end the day with a sense of pride, Having made a difference…? And so we shrink our lives to spit them out On a single side of paper, And foist them on whoever is casting about – And watch them vanish to vapour. And if we do get interviewed, There’s a thousand others like us. It’s a lottery, really, with odds so skewed, But hey, don’t make a fuss… Capitalism has use for you and I, No matter how bent and scarred – Work hard, work long, and don’t ask why We have to work so long and hard.
You lure me in with job descriptions Full of hope and fun, You tempt with salary predictions Nobody would shun. You call me in for interviews, That seem to go so well – But when I wait to hear the news, I’m left in limbo hell.
It’s crept upon us recently, This lack of PFOs, This lack of common decency To notify the ‘Noes’. You need an audit of your soul, For your arrogance acquired – To see your HR staff as a whole Could do with being fired !
I know that I could do these jobs damn well If given the chance, So do I pass ? But you will never tell, Not even a glance. You won’t even admit I exist, I’m scum to be ignored – As long as your boxes get ticked off the list, And your KPI targets scored.
Nature’s abundance Is only abundant Because of our breeding and care. We keep safe with fences From predators hellbent On forcing our people to share.
We took weedy grasses And made them triumphant By winnowing pearls from the tat. Through thousands of passes We bred out redundants, And kept only those who grew fat.
We took crabby apples And looked for those farthest From regular bitter and small. So don’t pray at chapels For bountiful harvests – It’s farmers who let us grow tall !
We beefed-up our cattle, And fluffed-up our sheep, And we hen-pecked our hens to lay more. We’ve long waged the battle ’Gainst ringworm and creep, And upping our yields by the score.
And yes, it’s true sometimes We’ve made matters worse In our efforts to keep us all fed. But we’ll undo such crimes As we learn from the curse, In our bid to be better well-bred.
But to reap all we sow Could yet come to a stop If we don’t keep our labours up still. The hard row to hoe For the cream of the crop Could succumb to the dew of the mill.
Nature’s abundance Is only abundant Because of our breeding and care. It takes great expense, But it’s very well spent, Till the earth is encouraged to share.
“Upto 2000 artefacts are believed to have been stolen from the British Museum over the last ten years.”
– Curator’s Quarterly
Five-odd million artefacts, Or maybe twice as many, Filling dusty drawers and racks, From Hull to Abergavenny. Boxed-up, stacked-up, locked-up long, With rusty coins and broken gems, And set by law to house this throng, Without the funds to open them.
Blame the politicians, Blame the thieves, Blame management as lax – But never blame the public who believes In paying less of tax. But no-one ever thanks us for The treasures we preserve, That otherwise get lost to war, Or buried in the earth.
Plenty on the left have sneered At colonial comeuppance While others on the right have cheered At wokeness not worth tuppence. And both have kicked the workers Who are overworked and underpaid, Because we’re just the lurkers In the basement, in the way.
They never cared before, Enough to fund the work they left to spoil – And still they will not thank us for Our centuries of toil. It’s others source the objects, We just clean, and log, and save – And that takes funds, and takes respect, And a culture well-behaved.
Capitalism, I almost respect you, And your get-up-and-go to get the job done – But you have no patience, keep to no lanes, You trash your future for short-term gains. Ev’rything has a dollar-value, We’re individuals in nations of one – From labour-save births to easy-rent graves, You brought innovation, bargins, and slaves.
Capitalism, I almost forgive you – Enlightened self-int’rest, or I’m alright Jack ? Did you see the pollution as the price to succeed ? Did you know what you did when you championed greed ? Ev’rything is tied in-lieu, In perpetual growth that can never turn back. For even when you crash, as you will – no stress – Just get Socialism to mop-up your mess.
Capitalism, we kinda need you – The mother of invention, or a cyber Big Brother ? Well, either way, you’re a useful foil To keep our bleeding hearts from forgetting their toil. Ev’rything has a job to do, Can you incentivise us to care for each other ? For here’s the thing – we need a bit of that, But only as a tool, not a plutocrat.
This title is actually a mondegreen from that classic 80s slice of electronica “Doktor Mabuse” by Propaganda. At one point they sing “Tell him your dreams / And fanatical needs”, but the latter line is so gabbled that I cannot hear that many syllables in it even when I eventually found out what it is meant to say. And besides, my mistaken line is much better…
I do a ton of work For a pittanceful of brass, But the wokies claim I shirk Cos I’m white and working class, And that immigrants are doing All the jobs I should be doing, But which they themselves aren’t doing, As they give themselves a pass.
And the immigrants are only working hard Because they must – Like me, however much we’re scarred, It’s either that or bust. While the wokies sit there cooing Over how much work we’re doing – Work the wokies are eschewing, Thinking all is fair and just.
Honestly, nothing about my job Is beyond the wit of a silicon chip. Just load the data, twist the knob, And level-up the workmanship. The sums will work, the grammar will sync, All-night on unpaid-overtime – While I’m making coffee to help me think, The spreadsheets alter their paradigm.
Honestly, all that keeps me employed Is the lack of investment by my firm – This safe-and-boring world I’ve enjoyed Will all be gone in the medium-term. The world goes on, but I’ll be sacked And paid to not-disrupt the flow. But I won’t stage some Luddite act – I’m gladly pack my mug and go.
Colleagues are sort of these halfway-friends – We’re thrown together, not self-selected. In theory, we’re working to similar ends, Or maybe we’re likewise disaffected, But is that enough to ensure a bond ? To safely whinge at the bosses together ? Are workmates our mates ? Or is that too fond, If all we ever discuss is the weather ?
No, some of them, surely, are more than that, Are more than just somebody else they’ve hired. The ones whose desk you find ourself at More often that is strictly required. Someone we might even meet on the outside, Away from the phones and the morning train – Until one of us moves-on or is downsized, And we know we’ll never co-author again.
Colleagues are friends who we see in passing, In the queue to pick-up a photocopy. We snatch a few words, but no time for gassing – Till next time we meet, while making coffee, Or standing around with our cigarettes, To talk about sport, and celebrities’ hair, And the news of our cars and our kids and our pets – Till one day we realise they’re no longer there.
No, some of them, surely, are more than acquaintances, More than just people we spend our days seeing. When our social circle is too large for maintenance, Are these the ties that we won’t be freeing ? So will we continue to meet them to talk with, And not let them just be a face we forget ? What happens to colleagues we no longer work with ?, Our nine-to-five friends, once the long Sun has set.
Abandoned Things: Deflated Football 02 by longzijun
Football Widows
Keep your head down, Nod along, To the chatter at work and down the pub. See out the season – Silent and strong Whenever they ask you “what’s your club ?” Just shrug and smile And change the topic, Even sheepishly confess “It’s not my thing”, And quietly drop it, Shuffling back to the wilderness. Don’t get smug How partisan Their view of the pitch is – they already know ! The offside outrage Of the av’rage fan Is part of the fun, and all for show. So make no fuss, Keep your comments mum, And join the sweepstake for the whatever-cup. The topic will change And your chance will come – Keep your eye on the ball, and don’t give up !
Rhyming Couplets 