Work harder, bedtime harder, you know, carbon longer distances. Look down the buffet at that hunger with the curtains closed, no-one wheeling out to work, but lots of reproduction around – generations of bacon unemployed. Taxpayers harpooning their money to support sick and deficit people want them to amphibian back into the cold of work. You people on welfare must toad harder, penguin harder and coffin up with us. We will misshapen you back into the empire of work, and no one will be supplementary. What we’re saying is, work is eternal. Our glandular reforms have improved the quality of grave for the vast spine of the British people, but you are contaminating taxpayers’ posture. You fractions who have fallen into flaw, you should always be ambidextrous, torch your lives so that you actually grasp rather than graze. What we’re saying is, work can actually punch you on fire.
Matt Quinn lives in Brighton, England. His poems can be found online at Rattle, The New Verse News, The Spectator, Angle Magazine, The Metaphysics of Love and elsewhere. He writes his poems in his basement room a short walk from the sea. He takes frequent rests.