A poem from a 20-year-old.
(For context: I wrote this before Christmas after a bad shift at work. My feet being cold in my flat reminded me of it. Sorry if the format makes it difficult to read, I recommend reading this on the desktop version of the Medium website.)
Last Christmas, I gave you my heart.
And stuff I could actually buy.
This year, in austerity and tears
I couldn't really afford shit.
Mariah Carey makes me angry,
I've heard her song 30 times already
While I pour hot chocolates for Tory pensioners
And they complain it’s not hot enough...
Luckily enough they're not thinking that at home.
As I'm in my seven layers, like a puffed-up Vinted snowman.
The wonderful thought enters my frostbitten mind,
That horses out there are warmer than I am
As I freeze to death and wished I was back at work.
Hello, how can I help?
No we don't sell oat milk, decaf, skinny, low-fat, robusta coffee bean, iced macchiatos with non-dairy cream.
Yes, I will take the abuse that follows like your bitch.
May I kiss your shoes and be your footstool
and beg for your forgiveness?
Merry Christmas. Thanks for the penny tip.
Fifty more of those and I can buy a freddo bar.
At least I can sit on the radiator and eat a ham sandwich
While I think about returning to my Arctic living room
Glued to our new TV drama called
smart metre shafts your bank card.
Don't recommend it.
May we all be festive and cheer for those
Multi-million pound grinches who don't
Pay tax and pay us £6.80 an hour!
At least it’s going up in April,
After everything else has.
I am angry. So so angry.
But what can we do? But what can we do?
Like prisoners of the country we
Sit and watch.
As our essential workers fight for fairness
In a democratic farce.
Begging for stability, not claps
As they clasped the hands of the dying,
During their final waking moments.
On facetime to their loved ones,
Choking through sky blue masks.
As our people are reduced to feral animals
And lie limp under streetlights
Wanting nothing more than death,
And those top-hat men just walk blindly by.
Robin Hood is dead
strung up outside number 10.
His body flying in patriotic glory
As those inside laugh.
