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Joan
She sits in the gloom of her freezing cold room
A room she can’t heat anymore
Her larder is bare but she never goes there
For she doesn’t eat anymore

Her late husband’s medal lies there by her chair
How bravely he’d fought for his land
She doesn’t caress it as she used to do
For the medal has slipped from her hand

But she isn’t sleeping and nobody’s weeping
For nobody knows that she’s there
There’s no one to write and there’s no one to call
And no tea and biscuits to share 

But there on the floor, just inside her front door
A letter from no one she knew
This preprinted letter says ‘Pay up, you’d better:
Your payment is long overdue.’

A government ruling; the very last straw
There simply was not any slack
She barely got by, couldn’t skimp anymore
Her camel has broken its back

The Burglar
Wood splinters freely, the door opens wide
The stench is what hits the man first
He takes a deep breath before stepping inside
And the sight not the stench is the worst

What to do, what to do, he hasn’t a clue
His conscience has hit him again
He goes to the window and using his finger 
Writes “HELP” on the frost covered pane

                       *

The Reporter
The journalist wrote rather more than a note
Saying though she was fragile and old
Once the government cut her allowance for fuel
She was destined to die of the cold

That’s the story of Joan who died all alone
Too frightened to turn up the ’stat
For she was got rid for three hundred quid
Let’s hope Starmer’s happy with that

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