They point at the shoreline
like the country is drowning in rubber boats.
Like the reason your rent fills you with panic
is a man crossing the sea, with wet shoes
and a phone number stitched into his jacket.

Meanwhile, somewhere far from the food bank queue,
a billionaire laughs into a glass of champagne
on a yacht big enough to have its own postcode.

They tell us to fear the poor.
Never the people pricing us out of our own lives.
Never the landlords collecting houses
like football stickers.
Never the companies recording record profits
while your gran chooses between heating and eating
because both are luxuries now.

They don’t build anything.
They just keep your eyes busy… 
Feed you someone to blame;
Someone close enough to touch.
Someone poorer, louder, stranger than you.

And while you’re choking on anger;
While you’re tricked into mistaking hatred for power,
the real thieves slip their billions quietly past,
carrying our tomorrow out the back door.

(c)BobChristian