by Nick Gisburne
The Lower Levels ripple with the news:
A ration pack reduction. Down, again.
But public propaganda pods confuse
The figures, never noting why or when.
While something isn’t nothing, less is bad.
Already some are starving, others dead.
Another cut. Be strong, they say, be glad,
Or offer to be shot behind a shed.
The rumours of a revolution rise,
But those who shout the loudest disappear.
The titled, in their towers, in the skies,
Have nothing but banality to fear.
The peasants sound their trumpets, blow their smoke,
But know they could be slaughtered with a stroke.
