COLD COMFORT

                        It’s Cold Comfort, when the bitch makes you wait,

                        Just shrugs you aside, when your Giro is late.

                        You’ve no cash for the rent and the kids need their bread.

                        But you need condescension like a hole in the head.

                        She tells you you’ll have to re-take the Means Test:

                        While she’s dripping in gold, on her hands and her chest.

                        And she fucks you off quickly so she can regain,

                        The thoughts she was having of her fortnight in Spain

                        And the marvellous folk on the Costa del Sole,

                        Who’re superior by far from the scum on the Dole.

                        It’s Cold Comfort when the arrogant twat,

                        On the desk at the hostel reminds you that:

                        You can’t have a bed if you’re twenty pence shy

                        Of the two pounds you need for a bed in the sty.

                        He’s no time for grovelling;  cajoling or pleas,

                        As he fiddles about with his new Volvo’s keys,

                        And fucks you off quickly so he can go home,

                        To his semi-detached and his new mobile phone

                        And his pretty young wife who just can’t understand,

                        Why there’s so many homeless in Cardboard Box land.

                        It’s Cold Comfort, when you’re watching the telly,

                        You don’t have a licence or food in your belly.

                        Then a well-fed rock singer starts singing a ditty

                        About Children in Need, or the tough inner-city.

                        He’s chock full of shite about helping the needy,

                        And although he’s got millions he’s so bloody greedy,

                        That to fuck off abroad’s his contingency measure,

                        In case Labour gets in and curtail all his pleasure.

                        Then he’d get in his Learjet and head for the sun.

                        And he’ll try to forget about his roots in the slum.

                        It’s Cold Comfort, when you’re trying so hard

                        And Society seems to be marking your card.

                        You can’t get ahead, no one seems to encourage,

                        The dregs of the System, we’ll never flourish.

                        Though what would the owners of Water or Gas

                        Do if ten million poor put a kick up their arse,

                        And claimed what was theirs from the wealth of the Nation,

                        A decent existence and pride in their station

                        And a chance to aspire to a place in sun,

                        And to stop eating shite while the Fat Cats have fun.