Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
john-edward-smallshawPoems
Churned out from the factory the fractured of society what fuckin' hope is there left for me? I want a stewards inquiry. They'll take them young at the point of a gun make them sign on the dotted line and time after time has run away they'll say, it's too late now for second thoughts. In The Lord Chief Justice courts an appeal is filed by the pregnant women with the awkward smiles, but it's far too late to remonstrate or join a group and demonstrate. The fracture turns as the factory burns and the fireman dressed in red are all at the local football match, though some are still in bed and I know that hope has upped and gone, I'd have done the same, but I took too long and on the wrongs and rights of those flesh coloured tights the Lord Chief Justice rules. Take your children fill in forms put them in the factory bed them down in dorms. Breed them Feed them we will need them to churn out more men Society salutes you. But we take them young, under the hammer at the point of a gun auction lots the lot of them. I am slavishly aware of the value of life and the need for fresh air unfortunately so are they they'll keep us grey oxygen starved the beauty we see has already been halved and soon to be quartered and we're being slaughtered down at the knackers yard living's incredibly hard even with a union card we try some succeed but only because the factory decrees it.
0
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 4:02 AM UTC
The industry
Churned out from the factory the fractured of society what fuckin' hope is there left for me? I want a stewards inquiry. They'll take them young at the point of a gun make them sign on the dotted line and time after time has run away they'll say, it's too late now for second thoughts. In The Lord Chief Justice courts an appeal is filed by the pregnant women with the awkward smiles, but it's far too late to remonstrate or join a group and demonstrate. The fracture turns as the factory burns and the fireman dressed in red are all at the local football match, though some are still in bed and I know that hope has upped and gone, I'd have done the same, but I took too long and on the wrongs and rights of those flesh coloured tights the Lord Chief Justice rules. Take your children fill in forms put them in the factory bed them down in dorms. Breed them Feed them we will need them to churn out more men Society salutes you. But we take them young, under the hammer at the point of a gun auction lots the lot of them. I am slavishly aware of the value of life and the need for fresh air unfortunately so are they they'll keep us grey oxygen starved the beauty we see has already been halved and soon to be quartered and we're being slaughtered down at the knackers yard living's incredibly hard even with a union card we try some succeed but only because the factory decrees it.
john-edward-smallshaw
Written by
john-edward-smallshaw
70/English
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 4:02 AM UTC
Request permission to use this poem