“A Burning Seed”
Surrounded by love, By I still cant move.
My vinyl is spinning, Without the needle in the groove.
My thoughts and passions burn without a chance of escape,
Overwhelmed with chains I fear will never break.
I want to stand tall and burst into sprint. . .
But reality dawns like a permanent splint.
Sunshine is irrelevant, Contentment seems so far,
Always being pipped at the post, Or putting it over the bar.
I see success around me every single day,
My only peace and sanity when I hear my children play.
Their my only thread of platinum in a cosmos made of coal,
There strength, Courage, And happiness will remain my only goal.
Sixty measly quid
To last me a whole week
A victim of Broken Britain
My misery’s at its peak
Stripped of my dignity
Powers on the wane
Surviving on frozen fish fingers
The giro’s run out again
Three quid on that lousy nag
No sweeties for the wean
My 4-1 shot pipped at the post
The giro’s run out again
Resistance is futile
Who listens when we complain?
No manifesto for the masses
The giro’s run out again
In the bleak midwinter
British Gas pile on the pain
Prices up by 18 per cent
The giro’s run out again
Suicide seems the only way out
As I walk home in the rain
When will this misery ever end?
The giro’s run out again
Peter put up potted plants on paths and patted himself
Pasted posters on pitted parts where people paid to pee
Praised and panned , through pleas and plans, pots and pans he banned
Pipped at the post in poles and piqued, he put it all on press.
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