Pensioners, Come Tomorrow

What can it be if not ignited tension Among retirees waiting for their pension That weakly caters for their weekly ration Their numerous legs, hundreds of suspension: A carbon copy of the criminal’s in a police station. Long, I’ve been watching their tired faces And ceaseless circuitous paces, All of them buffeted by the issued new orders About which they wouldn’t tell others… So, the Ministry won’t immediate payments be making For the breath of relief they should be taking And for long sitting on retirement seats, occasionally their only nurses for roaring heartbeats And varicose veins of legs deserving an apology. The Ministry - for Goodness Heavens!- can, herself, spare the Image of Black Ravens with the firmest farewell to “Come Tomorrow” Announcements, Often her making time-seeking searchers of misplaced documents.