“My Old Man’s a City Gent,
He wears a bowler hat.
He took me to the Stadium
To watch a Top Flight match.
The Exec Box was plush and posh,
The caviar first class.
The sandwiches replete with prawns,
The accents were cut-glass.”
“My Old Man’s a miner,
He wears a flat cloth cap.
He dragged me through the turnstile
To see a humdrum clash.
Our run-down Ground was not half-full,
The pitch devoid of grass.
The meat pies past their sell-by date,
The accents gruff and harsh.”
“My Old Man? He’s on the dole,
He hasn’t worked for years.
Can’t spare the cash to watch the match,
Or buy a pint of beer.
He gets his footie from the Box,
Slumped in a worn armchair.
He’s just another cast-off
From a land that does not care.”
It’s like on the Titanic,
Up top you’ll find the Nobs.
The Middle Class cling to their tails,
And down below, the Yobs.
The wheat is screened off from the chaff,
The sheep cleft from the goats.
But when we hit the Iceberg,
Will there be enough lifeboats?
Denys E. W. Jones