A Carillon for Carillion

Carillion

(With thanks to Thomas Gray)

The curfew tolls the knell of coming dread, 
The lowing management wind slowly to their ends, 
And homeward plod, their weary tread, 
To leave the company to darkness and thee, my friends. 

Now fades the glimm'ring sites of outsourcery, 
And all directors a solemn silence hold, 
Save where their money should be paid, tax free, 
And drowsy workers face winter's fiercest cold.

A breezy call of "Will you help?" from PM Cameron 
Meant Chairman Green became an advisor,
An 'industry czar', to plug the theme and hammer on 
That private enterprise works, the eulogiser.

But yonder Philip (not BHS) who saw it coming.
Arrived at Number Ten but who would listen?
So he jumped ship before succumbing 
To the push of May, newly elected, and on a mission.
Beneath those rugged oaks of commerce,
The outsourcing board their costs did tighten.
Worker's wages fell, while to directors honours
And extra cash were showered - viz Baroness Huyton.

The shares slid down, the market aflutter.
Investors lost savings, their nest eggs in ruin 
But Howson laughed, oh, no life in the gutter,
A contract's a contract and if not I'm suing.
If only workers could say, “Enough 
Of free enterprise, it doesn't always apply.”
As commuters on Southern Rail, who have it tough, 
Or weary East Coast travellers will testify.

The problem is the Tories - yesterday's men,
and women, and ethnic minorities - who seem to think
our daily life and sole concern is money, Amen.
The country heads down a darkening path to the brink.

Come on, Jezza, save our wearisome nation
And lighten our loads with fairness and money. 
Help the old and the poor and infirm rise up from their station
And lead us to the land of flowing milk and honey.
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Letters from Kolentawezi Jail

air mail letter

‘More than kisses, letters mingle souls’ ~J Donne

It was hot. It was always hot near the equator. Watson paused over the paper before deciding how to start the letter. The crude pen felt slippery in his sticky hand. He dipped it in the bottle of black sludge, supposedly ink. Would this be his last chance? Would it solve his problem? With a bold stroke from a hand powered by a hopeful heart, the squeaky nib wrote:

‘Dear President Olanta,’ he had always started with ‘Dear’ even though sometimes people were not necessarily ‘Dear’.

‘Sir, I am not guilty of the murder of Honest Nyrere. I plead with you to take a look at the case. I have never used a gun and so my fingerprints could not have been on the weapon found at the scene of the crime as the prosecution claimed. I was sleeping in my apartment two miles away at the time of the murder. The police arrested me on the evidence of a man, Alfred Chimbonza, who owes me money, a lot of money, 40,000 licugi although he’ll deny it of course. He is lying.

I am a too-easy target. Please help me.

Yours truly, Peter Watson.

Kolentawezi Jail’ Continue reading “Letters from Kolentawezi Jail”