The Protest

When the locals, gather as workmen
In the canteens of so little 
To meal themselves with warmth of tea


Ready to line a rally on the city lane 
No political manoeuvre, of sweet talk 
Would spin the concerns of the masses 


The streets will soon be covered with the worker aunts 
Picketing, bickering, demanding their bare necessity 
From the suited, out of touch, politicians 


Who  still peddle lip service 
And talking tough 
On  jettison horse dung  


When the bite hits had on pockets   
And tightened belts just leads to 
More tightening belts, to job loss 


While the cream at the top get 49.9% pay rise 
Just to say they were considerate enough 
To the little people, not to hit the 50% mark 


And local men, worker bees and aunts 
Ponder on outcomes, sleeps not at night 
Fearing what tomorrow holds 


This wave of unemployment 
Will soon grace our doors, it is a dark cloud 
Like the black death's epidemic 


Do they think we protest 
For the fun of it, just as a right to 
Talking it down, as just a phase, like a youthful rebellion  


24 hours of protestation and it will all be over 
These aunts, bees would be back at work 
And nothing would have changed, but just a dump squib  


Except for the enforcement of the cuts
Snobbish to the little people 
Who's survival are foreign to their concept 


Politicians should be jailed 
For gross professional "suit without substance"
Criminal misconduct of mismanagement 


To have brought about the death of the economy 
Just as the doctor faces his for t' same in a sense 
Why get away with Hippocratic oaths 


Instead t' behave  with pomposity, t' write books to sell after 
About their misdeeds selling out each other 
Duplicity on reflection, like thieves without honour, is new 


Do you think we line on rally lanes in mob 
Just as a procession, a fashion statement 
Just because we have the right to 


And we like doing the river dance 
Do you think, really I ask
Mate, seriously do you really think