For all the lawyers taking part in tomorrows day of action, I wrote this poem about the fight for Legal Aid a while ago now. It was first published in the Monday Briefing and although I dont usually post my poems on Facebook, this is for all of you who are fighting so hard to save one of the decent things this country has left. Please feel free to share it as you wish. Factory Farming When you sit, shell-shocked, uncomprehending, in a cell in something called a ‘suite,’ Remember this will be only the first of very many euphemisms you will hear. This is the post-apocalyptic world of Legal Aid, less bombed to bits, more stabbed to death by gangs. This stark, anonymous, blank place is just a holding pen, a catch net for the likes of you. Innocent until you’re proven otherwise, but disapproval and suspicion start right here. The cushion between horror and a chance is written on the balance printout at the ATM; The difference between someone on your side and factory farmers who don’t care. Justice once was held in balance by a blindfold figure who would disregard your class; But politicians didn’t care for that, they scorned the Magna Carta and the sense of right and wrong. They said, “who cares for symbols of a bygone age when we have breakdowns, business, KPIs?” Who cares for that man in the cell, pushed through the system like a piece of meat? His tiny peep of protest mechanically recovered and spewed out in sausage skin. “We have to pay for all of this,” they said, your liberty commodity And somehow attitudes like these make this man your superior, modern, good. You’re not even supposed to be here, but their turnover, and not your life, is king. And once you have been cattle-prodded into giving up your case, your chance, your fight And shipped off to the abattoir run by the self-same company that sent you there, You will at last see all the other haunted souls displaying odd behaviour, aggression and despair. This is the end stop of the factory farm for those whom some would call disposable This is the real conclusion of the schemes dreamt up by other men, ambitious in their suits. But wait! The hour has not yet struck, the clock stands at eleven fifty nine you see Do right, fear no-one for one minute and the man walks free.
Posted on: Thu, 06 Mar 2014 22:25:14 +0000
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