A Little Chunter from Inchcock
In bad, nae, terrible rhyme!
It’s the day of the criminal, there is no more law,
Empathy, understanding have become just folklore,
I don’t see Police officers in Nottingham, anymore,
Pavement Cyclists, beggars and shoplifters galore,
Street sleepers, who survive with skills of a detrivore,
Druggies, alcoholics, muggers, both old and mature,
While families dine, smoke cigars and drink their liquor,
All the time, making the poor, feel even sicker!
Disabled with Fit for Work Assessments, have to fight and bicker,
A blind chap got told he can work on a cherry-picker!
Jobseekers told to do psychometric tests, Glory Be!
But if you’re lucky, you’ll live to retire just like me,
But it isn’t what you thought, no rest and freedom, see,
Heart attack, Duodenal Ulcer, and I live on the twelfth-floor,
Peripheral Neuralgia, then a stroke and Arthritis, core!
What next I thought, and the lock broke on the door,
It was mended within three weeks, no need to be sore,
My hot water system went down, so I called help once more,
After nine days of being lied to, ‘We are coming today for sure,
Staying in and awake eight-until-ten, no chance of a bedsore!
But they mended it! It leaked, my clothes wet, the water did pour!
I slipped on the liquid, ending up injured on the floor,
Luckily, the stroke nurse called, so help came to the fore,
Depression and self-hating I began to explore,
I complained at the lack of help, this just caused a furore!
Now the haemorrhoids have returned, bloody and sore!
I fank You!