Blind Justice – a new poem by Phil Poyser

Blind Justice
Now listen to me, people, come and listen to my rap.
Take that i-phone from your ear and that i-pad off your lap.
We may think that there is justice, that Britain’s fair and square,
but whilst we’re feeling warm and snug, I’m goin’ to stop you there,
‘cos if you’re black or Asian or live in a cardboard box,
lie in blankets in shop doorways, it’s the school of hard knocks.
Yeah, it’s the school of hard knocks and so on your house a pox
Yeah, on your house a pox.

They’ve got her on Old Bailey’s roof, weighing scales in her hand.
She holds a sword, a blindfold wears, impartial. Ain’t she grand?
But she needs to shed those scales from her hand and from her eyes,
‘cos the papers badmouth the poor and fill our heads with lies.
“They’re scroungers on benefits. They don’t want to earn their keep.
They spurn zero hours contracts. They’d rather booze and sleep.
Yeah, they’d rather booze and sleep, those expletives, bleep, bleep, bleep
Yeah, those expletives, bleep, bleep, bleep.

They come from Eastern Europe, the Slav, the Lat, the Pole
and queue with home-grown parasites to claim the bloody dole.
Whilst, decent folk, that’s you and me, work our effin’ socks off,
they live the life of Riley, get stoned and get their rocks off.
They’re busy havin’ one more kid to get our council flats
and we know that generation will be dirty, little brats.
Yeah, they’ll be dirty little brats. It’s backed up by the stats.
Yeah, it’s backed up by the stats.”
So while Murdoch and the Tory press, master puppeteers,
vomit out their headlines and so manipulate our fears,

Blind Justice stands there rigid with her back to City’s banks,
turns deaf ear to austerity when the boardroom’s saying “Thanks”
with bonuses exceeding those of football transfer fees.
But I think I saw Blind Justice cry and get down on her knees.
Yeah, she got down on her knees to clean up all the sleaze.
Yeah, at last clean up the sleaze.

© Phil Poyser, Macclesfield, 13th. October, 2015

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