Quinoa

a poem about British class divide, and the unequal distribution of wealth worldwide.

The unequal divide that strikes down, harsh

pumped up supermarkets serving quinoa and smiles

a child, thirsty with hunger who stays reviled

because he isn't quite suitable for "this here particular establishment"

Poor is not being able to afford Heinz,

a pulp, you watch roaches climb the wall

yet you buy in bulk, you stall, ask if its gluten free

you say "hurry up we just haven't got the time

we must be off to see that new film "I Daniel Blake"

you know, the one about the chap who doesn't quite work hard enough

maybe he should strap on his boots,grab a rake

put in work like we do!

why don't they try harder?

get some place! maybe they could get farther!

if they just work like we do.

Maybe they could get a tomato and cheese focaccia

do they even go to the bakery?
what brutes they are!

have they even tried quinoa?

its a grain you know, quite good for the digestive tract

maybe if they just tried to, perhaps, change up their act

they could get far, maybe buy a lovely car

Or a nice slice of brie.

Trickle down tactics, suckle from my teat

work hard and maybe you won't starve

food banks aren't necessary

there is plenty to eat

but our taxes you know, should at least be halved

 because I want to shop at John Lewis 

and get a lovely cushion that just "quite ties the room together"

you know the one with the pretty pattern and the quaint duck feather?

Do you know our headmistress?

Do you know who she is?

the one who spits in the face of the poor and brown kids

the ones who tell fibs

and can't afford to eat

"you don't deserve a pudding if you don't work for your treat"

F**k her I say,

hit her with your car

and you know what?

f**k quinoa,

Author's Note

any feedback welcome, good or bad