A rather preachy one, I’m afraid.
The future is now
Foster children deserve only
second-hand clothes: not a line from
Dickens, but from our leaders — tailored
suits and perfect teeth —
shoes to be polished soon by orphans,
chimneys swept by ragamuffins,
debtors sentenced to long drudgery in
sunless, airless rooms,
moldy cheese for the poor, their water
foul, lives cut short and yet too long,
while you sit down to roasted goose —
such is your dream.
But look, already the people press
their noses to your windows, they can’t
afford a future, their bellies are empty,
their hands filled with stones.