Pen to paper,
Like every other,
Your life between a three-inch fine narrow line,
The ink is dry.
Mark the day,
The collapse of illusions,
A price paid for ‘freedom’,
To a bunch of well-paid, well-dressed hyenas.
Judgement in the hands of those caught red-handed,
On a race to push more papers,
A plastic stamp manufactured by the hands of children.
One pound with ferocity,
Just another number,
And then you’re single,
Finding solace in the mysterious deep blue sea.