Sunday, 23 October 2016

Fit for work

Fit for work

A brown envelope comes through the door
It’s painfully picked up off the floor
By a sad old man more dead than alive
Fit for work at sixty five

The cancer treatment was a success
He’s had two weeks to convalesce
Now sickness pay will no longer arrive
Fit for work at sixty five  

A morning appointment next Monday
In a Job centre plus ten miles away
He’ll have to get a taxi: he can’t drive
Fit for work at sixty five

They found him a job TWENTY miles away!
Packing stuff in boxes for minimum pay
Barely enough for a mouse to survive
Fit for work at sixty five

One year later, he’s still there
Like a worn out motor in need of repair
But nothing that a hard days graft can’t fix
Fit for work at sixty six

He’s working treble shifts, week in week out
His sleep pattern’s truly up the spout
Aching joints  thrown into the mix
Fit for work at sixty six

This wasn’t the life that he desired
And many of his friends are long retired
He’s an old dog tired of learning new tricks
Fit for work at sixty six

He stayed with a firm nearly fifty years
But his pension plans ended up in tears
When the boss sold up and bought a yacht for kicks
Fit for work at sixty six

Ten years later he’s past spent
But the government pension doesn’t cover the rent
And a diet of Pot Noodles and Weetabix
Still at work at seventy six

The prostate cancer didn’t come back
But he suffered a massive heart attack
And the medics couldn’t resuscitate
Died at work, aged seventy eight
And so ends this tale of misery
This working man’s obituary
From the day he was born till his final breath
The sum of his life?
Birth, school, work, death