'' That Is Obscene '' Poem by Bri Mar

Some cannot work,
But my God they try,
Then there's the jerk,
Who spits in your eye.

There are those who toil,
There are those who don't,
What makes me recoil,
Is those who just won't.

They see it as their right,
To do nothing all day,
On us they're a blight,
For we've got to pay.

To avoid any labour,
They use every excuse,
They rattle their sabre,
Don't give us abuse.

It's everyone's fault,
Apart from theirs,
While we earn our salt,
They say, who cares.

They think we are mugs,
Paying their bills,
While they score their drugs,
They're emptying our tills.

Betting and drinking,
Yes, it's our money,
They're so unthinking,
They find it all funny.

The sick and disabled,
While doing their best,
With skiver they're labelled,
Then forced through a test.

They've a genuine affliction,
Yet they're deemed as fit,
What really causes friction,
Is the liars they acquit.

The workshy then laugh,
They've no need to atone,
It's a government gaffe,
Leaving them alone.

Those individuals who're lying,
Are cruel and they're mean,
The genuine they're denying,

‘' That Is Obscene ‘'