Workin who knows when,
what uh way ta make uh livin.
I drop Alfred at school,
hear they too may stop givin.
I take uh long walk down thuh High Road,
handin out CVs like a hundred metre race.
All distributed, I take uh lil trip
ta Camden, ma fav’rite place.
I’m there in two hours,
walkin, unable ta waste uh fivah.
Starin, I dream bout livin at numba six,
where an Armani clad man is led by his drivah.
Ma head pans up ta thuh balcony
an’ see Mrs X tendin ta roses.
Now I’m thinkin of choc’late;
junk, held under our noses.
I leave thuh Gardens
ta head ta thuh gates an’ play chaperone,
complain ta a friend who says
man shall not live on bread alone,
ignorant ta ma pain, cos I’m paid,
unaware ma cupboards an’ fridge
an’ freezer are a cesspool.
Alfred sits across thuh table from me, a smidge
of baked beans on his chin.
I wear sunglasses ta hold in signs that this ain’t regal,
wonderin if there are any means to ensure we eat prop’ly
so ma eyes, ta find even a scrap, don’t have to be like those of an eagle.