Recession, revisited. 

Come friendly clouds, and fall on Bristol,
Not enough lush to wet my whistol.
Drier than cider, too scant to spare,
Let alone load a water pistol...

Like the money, slowly drying,
arid, silent, joy denying,
people afraid to curse or care
wait for what in wait is lying.

Loss of money, loss of rain,
when will good times roll again?
Will we find a way to share,
or hide in shame our secret pain?

Sparks of fire in Arctic weather
light the sky like neon heather,
but after New Year's hopeful prayer,
the ministers and pundits blether.

Talks of cutbacks, talks of tax,
progressing into real attacks.
A jowelled youthful millionaire
who does not lead, but whips our backs.

He does it gently, does it by proxy
with autocratic orthodoxy:
demands we make unpaid repair,
fix a nation with magic epoxy.

Take the power, win the race,
Make the peasants know their place.
Social mobility starts to scare,
so they burden us with their disgrace.

Appease the bankers, traitors all,
put the workers against the wall
to build their castles in the air,
then bury a nation when they fall.

This is what has cost so much!
Not the wealth the 'peasants' touch,
they only reach for what seems fair,
what greedy men will always clutch.

The 'leaders' kick them back and lie
about the 'common good' and try
to blame us for the costs they bear
to greed whose grasp they won't defy.

We need to build, but better yet,
to stop transmuting power to debt.
Efficiency, a gain so rare,
opens holes in a tightening net.

Do not struggle, just resist.
Dig your heels in, and insist
that your life is not theirs to snare.
You don't need their 'growth' to do more than exist.