Times are hard,
The country’s on its knees,
People start to fall away,
All the while I hear you pray
“Let me keep my job this winter…”
Bread and milk are the priority,
Food for the children is a must,
Luxuries’ are no more,
As the winter gets colder
Warm clothes need to be found…
Into the local shop you go
To get the perishables,
You thrust your hand into your pocket,
Searching for the coppers,
It’s all the money you have…
But there’s nothing in your pocket,
Panic takes over,
The shopkeeper takes away the perishables,
“I’ve been pick pocketed, I’ve been pick pocketed!”
But it makes no difference…
You turn your head wildly around
To find who it is that would do such a thing,
Every face is as guilty as the next,
Yet you can’t bring yourself to point the finger,
You leave the shop, empty-handed and broken…
The two ministers snicker slyly in the corner…
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