Class

They ask “What does it all mean, this life that I now lead?”

“What will I be remembered as; what is my life’s great deed?”

It’s then I know they’re well of, the upper middle class,

‘cos poor folk don’t have time to think of what will come to pass.

The poor just live from day to day and ask me as they sit

“What will I feed the kids tonight and will their clothes still fit.

Or will they need some new ones and will the cash appear?”

If the wolf’s not howling at the door, it’s always lurking near.

But in the end they’re all the same, perplexed by life or living

and I will simply sit and listen – the least I can be giving.

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About a foolhardy florilegium

Nullius addictus iurare in verba magistri
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