Worlds within worlds,

Time after time

The irrigated false economies

Of fashionable food:

Nothing too much for you

Nothing too fattening for you

Life on a plate for you.

 

While here in the gutter,

She's pulling at a thread,

One minute he was alive,

And now he’s dead.

Frankie, dear Frankie, he died after a war:

Took his own life, no trouble, no strife,

Never-even knew what the war was for,

Just another broken man to be seen no more.

 

His grandkids, now,

Hang around town

Look in mirrors. Frown.

Shibboleths of the multi-storey abound:

Pension pots for the rich re-tir-ees,

Index-linked, inflation-proofed,

It's often luck that rules the roost.

Nothing for these  kids or youngsters,

Nothing for the working poor,

Nothing for the immigrants

‘And if you don’t fucking  like it

Then there’s the fucking door’.