WE ARE THE OTHER PEOPLE

(I had in mind Chesterton's poem, 'The Secret People'  "We are the people of England, that never have spoken yet".)

We're the unheard Other People, the Underclass. You see
Us at the railway station, outside the library.
We ask you for your small change, or if you smoke, a fag.
Our home’s our skin and all we have is in a carrier bag.


We are no one’s constituency, no MP fears our vote.
Our spending power is zero; you cannot fail to note
Our nasty dirty habits, clothes, tattoos and pavement pitch.
You look away. Perhaps you say the prayer of the rich:


“Thank You, dear Lord, for house and family, diesel in our tank,
For hedge funds, Gilts and equities, for money at the bank.”
We do not know your story, your happy fairy-tale,
But ours is here for all to read: so read it – we’re for sale.


Our mothers did not love us. Our fathers soon grew bored.
And quit. New men came, loveless, lusting. At thirteen raped and whored,
Discarded, kicked-out, soon street-wise. And our remuneration
The cash and drugs our clients paid us for our degradation.

And yet we dream – if we could get a room, a job, and health,
Someone to love, be faithful to! We don’t need fame or wealth,
Just what we’ve always seen, not had: Safety, light, warmth and such
Belief and Hope, a little time. Do you think we ask too much?