Friday, August 26, 2011


supplied the illustration


The conveyor belt is relentless;
The 'items' come and go;
A tweak, a nip, a turn of screw;
Keep going, don't be slow!
Everyone dressed identically,
Every eye looking down,
Every heart beating wretchedly,
Every brow wearing a frown.
This is Thoreau's 'Quiet Desperation'
In its most painful form,
This is Huxley's 'Brave New World';
And for some it is the norm.
We gobble up what they make for us;
We never consider their plight;
They are locked in far-off factories,
Mercifully out of sight.
When they arise in the morning,
Certainly before the sun,
Do they ever feel a leap of joy
Thinking of work to be done?
Society clearly needs them,
But do we ever take heed
Of the faceless people in overalls
Who feed our endless greed?




All they had was their sexuality,
The ladies of Lily Langtry's day.
Brought up to be breeders
And socialites,
Those with ambition
Must have struggled under the yoke
Of inequality.
She was never spoken of in my husband's family,
Although she was his grandmother's cousin.
After all,
She was a fallen woman.
And she 'fell' several times.
She was 'no better than she ought to be',
In the parlance of another age.
But note her lover!
Not for her the tumble in the hay
With the local Squire.
She was Mistress to the Prince of Wales.
She had beauty and charm;
She could sing and act.
She was probably intelligent.
But she was a woman.
All she had was her sex.

1 comment:

Steve Isaak said...

Excellent, thoughtful versifying.