Oh, what shall they tax when the harvest is gone,
When the fields lie fallow, the barns overdrawn?
Shall the ploughman be tithed for the soil that he toils,
While the rich man grows fat on the profit of spoils?
Shall the sons of the land sell their birthright for crumbs,
As the statesmen make laws to the beat of the drums?
For the lords of the ledger, the builders of stacks,
Have whispered their price and are sharpening the axe.
Who fattens their purse when the farmers must sell?
Who bids on the land as they toll the death knell?
Who winks at the council and greases the hand,
While the wheat-fields are turned into high-rise and sand?
And when come the days of the rationed and poor,
When the crates from abroad are delayed at the shore,
Will they tell us ‘twas fair, ‘twas the will of the wise,
As they dine upon bread that was baked in the skies?
Yet once, in the time of our fathers before,
This land fed its people, in peace and in war.
But now, by decree, it is parcelled and sold,
A harvest of debt for the hunger of gold.
(By John Shenton)