the sloths of the parliament walls
are fat on their blood pies
and with stinking breath keep shouting;
spewing their infantile insanities
like we care.

my ears are not your guests,
you speak not for me
and yet you rob me of my future,
you rob me of my children,
with your belly-aching, your grunting, your wheezing, your pathetic little whining

and yet you can.
    for some unfathomable reason
you can.

Thief! your pockets are thick with my money
and my head is filled with your putrid promises.
you stomp and bawl
and take
              and take
   and take
like a spoiled brat in need of a rod...
and like the mother who has taught nothing of discipline
I have no voice with which to object.

if i shit on your lawn
would you not shoot me down?
you shit in my home

and i pay you.