Rage simmers in the singed saucepans of the everyman,

Like soup from a dented can, stirred by blistered hands.

Do not boil as it may impair the flavour.

A freshly peeled newsreader delivers

State sanctioned judgement in her derelict timbre.

We’re the problem, eating Heinz by the nuclear glow of the TV,

Perpetuator of myths.

The prime minister kisses a grubby baby

With the same lips that sigh

Let the bodies pile high,

Our hero.

If there’s time and energy, after we scrape the mould from the stale bread,

If we can copper up enough for the bus,

and nap idly with whirring heads against cold windowpanes,

We will revolt.