DOLCE ET GABBANA EST

 

Exhausted, bearing shopping bags and sacks,

But elated, pouting like ducks, we dodge the sludge,

And on the poor, the plebs we turn our backs

As to our modest homes, in fact, we trudge.

There we will sleep. And dream of our new boots,

Clothes, electronic goods – all brand names; blind

To having been conned; ignoring the hoots

Of derision from sales people behind.

 

Home. For ready meals, TV, and fumbling

With our partner. There’s just not enough time

In the day for work, rest, and play. Stumbling

Through debt – “I should’ve got that hat in lime…

Or puce?” – we are distracted by the light.

We grin with the weight. But we are drowning.

 

In a snowstorm of adverts we’ve lost sight

Of what’s real. ’Cos we’re worth it? We’re drowning.

 

We’re struggling just to keep up with the pace

Of this life, inflation, the mess we’re in;

If we’re honest, we don’t want to lose face,

Having lost our soul, our belief in sin.

Are we worth it? On our hands is the blood

Of foreign workers: they give up their lungs,

Their hopes, their lives. Whilst we dare chew the cud,

In a café with friends, cake on our tongues,

Swapping trivia with the zeal and zest

Of the desperate. We grab, in hollow glory,

The new lie: Dolce et Gabbana est

Pro patria Tory.

 

Copyright © 2014. Terry J. Bradford