The big circus already came to this town.

It arrived with illusionists, grease paint and whips

It came with the grand puppet masters,

Playing with smokescreens and mirrors

Throwing shadows of terror on the tent walls

To reduce the audience to silence.

 

The newspaper seller, outside on the street,

Screams out the blaring headlines.

‘’Blame the poor, they’re all scroungers.

Put them all on benefit sanctions.

Confiscate their wheelchairs.

Stop whining you bastards.’’

 

The bankers have their own show to attend

You won’t see them here

in this part of town.

They like everything private

in their own pockets.

They continue to smile

and twiddle their fiddles

while food banks become the new fashion.

 

I hear my grandfathers turn in their graves

in a rage,

of heartfelt compassion.