I live in a rich nation.
Four glittering goldmines,
held together by the honey,
of busy, obedient bees,
who are fed by applause,
and emoji filled tweets,
that work to the soundtrack,
of a suited somebody,
in a chaotic chamber,
who reminds them that they are rich.
I live in a prosperous place.
Proud.
Great.
United.
I do not remember a time,
when I could walk down the street,
without seeing struggling shops,
hungry, homeless souls,
among the busy, blind bees,
who snitch on their neighbours,
for not clapping,
for taking too many walks,
for spending what little they have
on the wrong type of comfort.
I live in a wealthy realm.
Errol Graham starved to death.
The safety net slips away,
again,
and the people are strangled with it,
by a tsunami of suited somebodies,
who repeat,
as we recoil,
that we are rich.
We are rich.
We are rich.
A death rattle of a starving, screaming kingdom,
that will never see the safety of palace walls,
and Downing Street apartments.
I live in a rich nation,
where people die for being poor.
