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.
