The politician sits on his fancy leather chair
Could be in any city, could be anywhere
Going to meetings in chauffeur driven cars
Putting in expenses, for a journey twice as far

As he claims expenses for the world and his wife
He knows little of the working class life
Sipping gin and tonic, his little finger in the air
For the people who put him in power, he no longer cares

Fine food and wines, in exclusive clubs he will eat
While the working class struggle, to make ends meet
Some driven to use food banks
For which they gratefully give thanks

In their luxury cars, they drive past every day
Turning a blind eye, to those sleeping in doorways
Down and out people, living under duress
Coping with alcohol problems, and mental illness

Zombie like beings, painfully thin
Needle marks and blotches, covering their skin
Every night in shop doorways, they rest their head
They are lucky, so many of their friends, have been found dead

Lost to a system, that no longer cares
Names deleted from a computer, as if they were never there
Buried in unmarked graves, like a Victorian pauper
Nobody caring, that they were someone’s son or daughter

People who only eat, if they beg or steal
But the politicians don’t, care how these people feel
In the doorways, sometimes covered with just a coat
They are not registered on any census, not eligible to vote

But when questioned, the politician is as wily as a fox
They have all the answers, only care about the voting box
Never acknowledging, what they saw in the doorways
Closing their eyes as they go past, hoping they would go away

Disappearing, as if they were never there
As the politician goes back, to his comfortable leather chair
Sitting in his private club, discussing the newly passed laws
A million miles away, from the world he never saw

updated by @ralph-jones: 09/06/18 04:03:49AM