Pickwick's Papers



Diseases of England



Class

A school of Gothic arches
And a college of them too
And a parliament that looks and feels the same
A comfort for the blessed
A horror for the rest
And each and every one of us to blame

The blessed rabble in the yard
The blessed rousers in the press
The blessed shoppers denied access to the shelves
The blessed Ministers of State have to pretend to be irate
For elites are happy talking to themselves

The scum with aching feet will march ignored in the next street
Because the TV clings to diction and to stars
You might very well object
But your motives are suspect
Because you're envious and you're mean because of class

It's a cesspit glossed with lime
With slogans thumbed into the grime
Offering thanks for your willingness to understand
It would be pretty as a picture
If you'd studied architecture
You haven't, but you can for 30 grand

For our cities are exciting
It says so in typeset writing
We glister from our towers to our trains
We have scrubbed the seats inside
And though you can't afford to ride
You'll have a good view with your noses pressed to the panes

We were born to lead; we write
And we talk the way you can't
We'll take your leaden grunts and pound them into glass
We'll steal your anger for potash
Lie hopelessness into cash
And you'll barely even notice 'cause of class

You're vulgar for wanting money
And ugly for wanting fame
And lazy for never getting off your arse
It was a fair test that you failed
And we're sorry we prevailed
But it's fair to give rewards to them as passed

So you can write your awful pamplets
You can sing your horrid songs
When we set you up, we set it up to last
You can rise up as a rebel
You can stay down as a serf
But you can't be one of us because of class