Whether we’ve been left like Flint
Or reliant on the large white hand to pump water within a mile of our village
They hoard all the hoses
The only ones who will survive this socio-political conflagration
Had a lighter and an aerosol can in their back pockets from the get-go.
As worldwide carpal tunnel syndrome ensues
Most hands lie limp
Even those who clench
Do so for them are theirs
Not you and yours
Not us and ours
Sitting tight in the little imaginary boxes
Lapping up their guillotine melting word association game
Leaving us less and not full of hope nor help
For their turrets stand miles out of reach
Yet to many it is us in the palaces,
Us on the thrones,
sat tall in all our gold and jewels
But we aren’t weighing the gold.
they are watching us sinking
Nothing to be but a pretty little fool.
Whilst It is true all grass has roots
And there are plenty of neighbours whose lawns need tending
Most days we’re forced to sit back and watch them dry out
In order to fertilise the grass beneath our own feet
But no matter how much grass we grow
In the end, the hoses are always full of horticulture vinegar.
Bottom-up, top-down
Whatever way you flip it
They are weighing the gold
Laughing at us as we sink
So we remain less and not full of help nor hope
There’s a better world coming
But it is surely just the next
we’ll be their soon
Once we peacefully rest