My Life

Fuck My Life

'Fuck my life!' I say,
slouching on the sofa, munching Maltesers,
and sipping chilled chocolate milk.

Prince Harry grins on my goggle-box,
one octopus arm around his starlet wife
whose gorgeous tanned skin contrasts with
an elegant white wedding dress.
He's done well for a ginger minger.

If I'd been born in a palace,
instead of a naff council estate,
that could be me molesting Meghan Markle
on the steps of St George's Chapel,
swanning around in a swanky uniform,
driving a top of the range Aston Martin,
and flashing my platinum Coutts card.

Why was I born a pauper?

Another dolly bird appears on my telly.
Her seductive smile saturates the screen.

'Spice up your life,' she says.
'Simply slip into this trendy top
from our exclusive collection
at a price you can afford.'

Tomorrow, I'll buy an XL T-shirt
then complain it doesn't fit over my rotund tum,
and blame that on shoddy foreign workmanship.

Five thousand miles away
five hundred scrawny kids
fill a filthy room from wall to window,
sweltering in the midsummer heat,
sewing sweatshirts and swimsuits
they could never afford.

The factory's chimneys stain the sky,
its drains sour the sea,
and those kids never learn to laugh
or even ever see that sky or sea.

Not my sky,
nor my sea,
and not my kids.

'Fuck their lives!' I say.
'They should have been born somewhere better.'


40 lines
Free verse