There are few jobs left for the boys,
nobody can relax,
even if some do find work,
we make them pay more tax.
Face the fierceness of cuts ahead,
girls crash glassy ceilings,
bosses say ‘I must let you go’,
no room at all for feelings.
All credit to the dear bankers,
bonuses full of noughts,
rows of zeros the rest of us get,
to share – as we were taught.
I had my say, my vote, my X
– Factor phone-call did more,
helping starlets make a record
Number: One at least less poor.
Watch out as well for middle age
spread – bets might be better,
the service jobs have all gone East,
bad? – just you wait til later.
Put off pensions – the perfect plan,
make the old seem younger,
five more years, but still no work –
they can’t help living longer.
If they forgot to bear a kid,
to be their future carer,
people won’t want to pay for them.
Then who decides what’s fairer?
© Allison Hill, 2011