Poem
The Rise and Fall of the Working Class Male
He’s serious
(Like cancer),
He’s not mucking about,
Life’s not that mysterious,
He’s got it all worked out,
Out brief candle,
His poor player merely struts and frets,
He hasn’t got a prayer,
And no one’s placing bets on him
Going the full distance,
Now he’s lost his punch.
He offers some resistance,
But it’s all based on a hunch
That he’s been playing
For more than long enough,
Now they’ve heard what he’s saying
And they’re going to call his bluff.
Tough guy though he might have been
Prepared to compromise,
He just can’t keep his nose clean,
And it would be unwise
To trust to sentiment,
When they don’t understand,
That it’s not much of an argument,
If it can’t be settled
With a swift right hand.
