Thursday, 17 November 2011

He Who Shall Not Work; Shall Not Eat


I wouldn't give a medal to a starving man
Or the sweat off my bollocks for the race I ran;
When all he wants, is reality, to shirk:
Why should he benefit from my hard work?

So here's the cure for their impoverished mess
Let the poor have our diseases - on the N-H-S;
Guinea-pigs for cures for all their shamming pain
So we can work the harder; but only for our gain.

Oh, Christ! They whinge-on about their borin' fuckin' jobs
But only fuckin' borin' people live like fuckin' yobs;
They are the cause of their own sad fate
For they are the excressence of the Welfare State.

If the poor want respect, they can damn well earn it
Give 'em money? I'd rather fuckin' burn it;
Just leave 'em in the gutter - no Ifs; no Buts
I wouldn't waste the food to feed their fuckin' worthless guts.


Look! Starvation is the reward for the parasite's plans
This is a Natural Law; and not one of Man's;
If you wish, in this world, to be set free
Then get off your arse and stop trying to scrounge off me.



Copyright © 2011 Frank TALKER. Permission granted to reproduce and distribute it in any format; provided that mention of the author’s Weblog (http://poetryftalker.blogspot.com/) is included: E-mail notification requested. All other rights reserved. Frank TALKER is also the author of Sweaty Socks: A Treatise on the Inevitability of Toe Jam in Hot Weather (East Cheam Press: Groper Books, 1997) and is University of Bullshit Professor Emeritus of Madeupology.

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