Oh, hark! The learned man declares, with lips both cold and tight,
That toil-worn hands must beg for scraps, though taxed from morn to night.
No birthright holds, no pledge remains, the coin once earned is lost,
Yet strangers feast on golden spoils and never pay the cost!
Then let us cease, oh weary thralls, to feed this bloated beast,
Why break our backs for hollow words while others steal the feast?
If pension’s naught but charity, then why should Britons slave,
Whilst those who’ve given naught at all grow rich on what we gave?
(By John Shenton)