Cinzano aspirations,

With the bright lights hope.


Before their Father went abroad,

In uniform to fight,

To dirty, hot environs,

To prove the Empire’s might.


Now they holiday in Spain,

And flee the seaside rain,

Their dismal weeks in Morcambe,

Now thoroughly disdained.


Build a Spanish patio,

With money earned from sales.

Fiddling the taxes,

Skimming off the gains.


Read the Daily Mail,

The Sun no longer comes.

Complain about the unions,

And Harold Wilson’s Chums.


Sipping a Martini,

From the chipboard cabinet,

Veneer transforms the surface,

No solid wood in it.


Garish floral paper,

Illuminates the walls.

A plastic print of horses,

Hanging in all halls.


Steak and chips,

Duck a l’orange,

Displayed our prosp’rous ways.

A gateau black with cherries,

Ice cream, ‘Lyons Maid’.


But now it all is ‘different’,

We scoff at all these things,

Our wine not merely ‘red’ or ‘white’,

From Tuscany it wings.


Selecting finest morsels,

Hand prepared by chef,

Send it back complaining,

We never are impressed.


We holiday in Thailand,

We eat out every night.

We wear designer clothing,

And party till daylight.


The Peasant now the Master,

Gives not a single thought,

For the teeming sweatshop masses,

Who all their wealth have brought.


Out of sight and out of mind,

In ‘another world’.

We need not even watch them work,

Unlike our former lords.


It is the ruling classes,

This privilege their part,

To consumption make a virtue,

A discipline, an art.


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