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



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