It's one eighty and
here in blighty
by the crypt
we're being stripped
of our dignity

It might be hopeless
we might be helpless
and I confess
I do not know.

The weather's warmer now,
but
little choice for them
a line for tea at ten
and back on the street again.

That pile of rags you see
is a dying humanity
crying profanities
shouting obscenities
I understand why.

In a City that flows.

you'd think that
they would engineer
solutions
and get us away from here
but
that's not cost effective
not a priority
no government directive.

This is
the threshing machine
sorting
the wheat from the chaff.

I'm following the times
time's following me
and all around me I see
piles of rags.

London,
paved with
for sale and sold signs

redistribution by stealth
a wealth tax on the poor.

We should get out
leave them to it
but
the glue holds fast
and
we'll never do it.

We're like rats on a ship
the pied piper trip
sinking and hoping
we float.

I vote to sink
let them ******* think
I'm done,
but when the
safety valve blows in
the city that flows
when the crying humanity
rises as one
It'll be them that's done.


it's still one eighty
I could be early
a bit premature
a Johnny come lately
love me
hate me,
but
ignore me at
your peril.