Bring me no roses, on this sad day.
No fancy words, no bright eulogy, pray.
Bring nothing but your tears,
Your regrets and fears..for what has gone awry,
And what is now come into play.
My people are scattered, their works repealed,
Their strikes, their rights, their hard-won wages reviled.
Their lives of toil and camaraderie forgot,
Traded away as an auctioned lot,
Along with their “crude and clumsy jot”.
Their fumbling demands for rights at work,
Dismissed by “class-less” finishing-schooled dolts,
With soft, crème’d hands and a tongue that is forked.
No..bring me no roses on this, such a day,
For I am still weeping for my lost comrades..
Give flowers to the “pretty people” as they go about their play,
The soft, sweet scent will hide the stench as they betray.
The working class Australia I grew up with is gone…dead..replaced with a younger, new class of risky-financed middle-class aspirants of part-time/casualised.. barely anybodies.. that, I have to confess..I have never seen SO ambitious to clamour toward such radical mediocrity.