Monday, 16 July 2018

Murdoch conned the working class

Murdoch conned the working class

Murdoch conned the working class,
Did it very craftily,
Normalising tits and arse,
Changing viewpoints gradually.
Told them that their unions
Were to blame for all their woes.
Altered their opinions
Made the bosses their heroes.

Murdoch conned the working class
From his empire overseas.
Thatcher with a gifted pass
Sold off all their industries.
Largess from the big fat cats
Made things run without a hitch,
Buying shares and council flats
They believed that they were rich.

Murdoch conned the working class,                           
Steel works, ship yards, mines closed down.
Britain turned into a farce,
Unemployed in every town.
Union leaders stripped of power,
Discontent, north-south divide,
(London was a big cash cow
Long before the old witch died).

Murdoch conned the working class
And he does it still today.
Liars now are superstars,
Living safely far away.
Ruthless takers with no shame
Rob the pensions of us all,            
Immigration takes the blame;                         
Murdoch’s friends divide and rule.

Monday, 2 July 2018

The hardest punch

The hardest punch.

A father and a son,
Lived apart for years,
Shared no celebrations,
No joys no mutual fears.
Their relationship was broken,
And distance could not heal,
Nor the rift that was between them,
Could any miles repeal.

Resentment, disappointment,
Across the airwaves came,
Unspoken; still they clashed
And wrestled all the same.
A truce was never called for,
A point was never gained,
Only memories distorted
By bitterness’s stained.

Resentment of a tyrant,
Memories tinged with fear,
Was all the son could feel
For the man he’d once held dear.
Disappointment, disillusionment,
Aggravation and regret,
Felt the father for his son;
His expectations never met.

Then one day came tidings
Of the father to the son;
Announcing he was ill,
And his life was nearly done.
“Come home”, the message rang;
 “Time is running out”.
The tyrant, it transpired,
Had succumbed to cancer’s rout.

The son arranged a trip,
A plane ticket he acquired,
To where his father lived,
And where he himself was sired.
And in trepidation,
He sat beside the bed,
On which lay his father, whom
He knew would soon be dead.

The father, barely breathing,
Awoke and saw his son,
Contemplated all the fatherly
Things he’d never done,
Looked into his son’s eyes,
Smiled and gently sighed,
And felt a warmth inside him,
He’d previously denied.

A punch dealt from a death bed,
Is very hard indeed;
The recipient left scarred,
Will barely cease to bleed.
Hence with dreadful expectation,
On his father’s dying day,
The son in silence waited,
For what he had to say.

The punch came not as words
But via an inward stare;
The father’s gaze diverted
To the warmth residing there.
The son then knew with certainty,
He’d drawn his final breath;
He saw the look of anguish;
His acknowledgement of death.

To the bed from out of nowhere,
Doctors, nurses ran,
Drawing curtains ‘round it
To hide the dying man.
Continuously bleeping,
The sound of the machine,
Now getting ever faster,
Behind the curtained screen.

The curtain then pulled back;
The orphan looked inside,
And saw upon the face
Of his father, who’d just died;
Serenity and acceptance,
Saying peacefully and clear;
“Death’s a wonderful thing son,
It’s not a thing to fear”.

A father and a son estranged,
Lived apart for years,
Shared no celebrations,
No joys no mutual fears.
But the father gave a final gift,
The son could not deny,
He never taught him how to live,
Yet showed him how to die.