A Nation Of Pain Poem by Don Pengilly

No pain no gain I here you say
At the end of the day someone has to pay
Put the cost of living up if you may
The wealthy do not suffer
They pay their way
Without cost to wellbeing at the end of the day
The poorer you are the harder to pay
Worst of all they have no say
You rich can still fill your Merc with fuel
And don’t give a toss
It’s the poor who fill worn out Ford at a loss
Your at the supermarket, months supply at a time
Trolley full of food
So! if every item cost an extra dime
Makes little difference to your purse
It’s the poor who suffer
At rising cost, live under a curse
You ask the poor to tighten their belts
What an insult to them
Wastes already tight and very deep welts
A curse on you politicians’
Whose pockets are full
You’ll never identify with those who can pull
Very little money to pay off their bill
Let alone the taxes you so glibly instil
You talk well in your etonic tones
And expect the poor to pay of your loans
May God forgive you for the mess we are in
You’ve bungled it this time it’s a crime and a sin

(This poem was written on the 29th of Sept 08
The very day the Daily Mirror s front page headline was “World Of Pain” relating to the financial crisis)