The big circus already came to this town.
It arrived with illusionists, grease paint and whips
It came with the grand puppet masters,
Playing with smokescreens and mirrors
Throwing shadows of terror on the tent walls
To reduce the audience to silence.
The newspaper seller, outside on the street,
Screams out the blaring headlines.
‘’Blame the poor, they’re all scroungers.
Put them all on benefit sanctions.
Confiscate their wheelchairs.
Stop whining you bastards.’’
The bankers have their own show to attend
You won’t see them here
in this part of town.
They like everything private
in their own pockets.
They continue to smile
and twiddle their fiddles
while food banks become the new fashion.
I hear my grandfathers turn in their graves
in a rage,
of heartfelt compassion.