Joan

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