Daily Bread

Is this the land fit for heroes Promised by the Great War, Or, just one where those with Take ever more and more. I’m just a working man Brought up to accept My lowly role in life To treat with respect The privileged and wealthy That so elevated band Who, by whatever means, Own and control this land. I accept with gratitude The remains from their table Knowing I’ll be tolerated Just so long as I am able To labour for my living, To earn my daily breads And then, when unable, Very decently be dead. I have learned to accept, Even accept with gratitude, The behaviour of my betters And their superior attitude. I rear my children in humility, Train then to take my place To attend to and serve thoose Masters of the Human Race. I’ve got my beer and my footie On the pub large plasma screen, Tolpuddle, Peterloo, Orgreave Might just as well not have been