Playing with the stereotype: I don’t fit.
Call me out in public? That’s last year’s kit.
What you come here for, again?
This ain’t it.
Boris and the Pritster
make me sick.
It isn’t a matter of the government chums,
hard words and hard truth, good enough for bums
ruling to persuade us: just keep schtum
as they drain the tank of all our funds.
Freeze the civil servants’ pay;
give your mate a rise
for issuing contracts to supply
Serco and G4 with all the pies.
They won’t train dinner ladies to cook real grub
without a supermarket celebrity in the tub.
World-beating systems? Track and trace?
Nothing more than saving face
for sacking the catering staff
down the pub
give it to a contract distribution hub
for sugar, fat and alcohol,
yum, yum, yum!
Perfume for Christmas?
You just might …
Blame it on the workers
it’s the public servants’ watch
as they tell you you’ve been caught
with your bits on the block.
Like Brexit we will exit
every common decency
and blame it on the truckers –
on the out-of-luckers –
not the big dogs who got ‘em,
blame the fleas.