Within the safe sound walls,
of the new school halls,
the children live.
Cocooned, hidden, deceived.
The token visit is paid,
yearly the job man cometh.
'Opportunities abound for jobs to be found'
he tells with a knowing air.

Kids collect paper,
for the mantlepiece,
and run out into the real world.

The brick wall is met.

Laughing in your face,
stabbing your back.
The men in suits have two fingers at the ready,
a straight answer.
The streets are walked, the office doors knocked.
The stamps licked and wasted envelopes sealed.

The men in suits snigger,
at your shoes of ripped leather,
and your clothes of tattered cloth.
Your cleanly shaven face, reddened in disgrace,
as you fall flat once more.
Trampled underfoot, by the cleanly polished boots,
the cleanly polished boots of the men in suits.

The days turn to years,
the dismay turns to tears,
and the makeshift noose lies ready.
The final application is sent.
The final penny spent,
and your final breath becomes a headline,
read in the papers by the men in suits.
A relief, heaven sent.

© Edward ian Armchair 2002