WHAT DO YOU MAKE?
That Downing Street drone keeps polluting the air
‘Hard-working tax-payers’ ‘Benefits cheats’
And yet there’s a question which beats like a drum
Come, politician and answer us this:
What do you make?
The house that you live in, the clothes that you wear,
Your Nanny’s new shoes, your tables and chairs,
The power in your socket, the gas in your range,
The fuel in your Aga, the tyres on your car,
The truckers delivering both near and far
The milkman, the postman, the doctor the nurse,
Bus and train drivers even those with a hearse?
Come, politician, answer us this:
What do you make?
Kings built no cathedrals, just labouring hands
No Lords were bricklayers, no Dukes shovelled sand
No debutantes, bankers or consultants built ships
And yet the same drivel still slops from your lips
Into the poor’s wounds you rub the old salt,
Those without work can be blamed, ‘it’s their fault’
To make the rich richer, you pay the poor less,
So what do you make? It’s time to confess.
You make dividends, money and profits galore,
Cold fingers in pies as you privatise more
Keep blurting your hogwash from Parliament’s floor
and squeal like stuffed pigs if we show you the door.
But we don’t understand, we’re all scroungers and thick,
So what do you make?
You make us all sick.