Within my every cell there is a ladder
that splits and multiplies as rhibosomes
read the body’s convoluted chapters.
Not one of these busy automatons
care for the person that I come to be,
a long haired, ex-Catholic republican,
scoffing at so called equality,
voted in today by sitting Lords
now chicks are alright for the Monarchy.
And I know nothing of these tiny hordes,
these microscopic sweatshops, where the shifts
will never end until I am brown bread.
And so it is that that my long suffering wife
is yet to feel the fleet acrobatics
performed by that near thirteen week old life
nor will it feel her travails, morning sick
a few weeks more before the promised lull,
just as those inbred aristocratic
parasites, waving from their gilded Rolls
will never know the nine to five dolor
of flag waving or finger flipping proles,
who are, by all accounts, their employers.