God how I love the working classes.
I love all their voices burgeoning forth
With unrestrained humour despite any crisis.
The song of the soil from the salt of the earth.
I love how they greet you with handshakes aplenty,
No matter your place on society’s scale.
They see you with eyes all non-judgementy,
The bread of their friendship will never go stale.
I love all their food, it’s so thoroughly wholesome
And made from ingredients honest and true
It’s served with humility, care and devotion.
One taste and your body and soul are renewed.
I love how they smell of the rigours of industry,
Strong in the arm and controlled in the hand.
Such heavenly scent, no perfumier’s artistry
Captivates more the olfactory gland.
I love them so much, I don’t want to labour it;
They’re honest and noble, hardworking and good.
Of all social classes they are my favourite;
I’d build cities to honour their name if I could.
No doubts in decision, no ifs, buts or maybes,
Those working classes are definitely best.
I just want to marry them and then have their babies!
Oh God, working classes, oh yes, yes, oh yes!
It’s only that- no I can’t, yes I can –
how can I put it, I don’t want to hurt:
Much as I love the working classes
I not so fond of the dirt…
A little in the crevice and a smidgin in the crease,
Smears along the inbetween glistening with grease.
Gritty under fingernails and grime between the toes
As soot and dust and dross decay increase, encroach, enclose.
Good God, I despise the working classes!
Their ill-fitting clothes and their false bonhomie.
They swill cheap lager from plastic glasses
And think prawn cocktail is gastronomy!
God knows I cannot stand the working classes.
I hate how they look, how they sound and they smell.
But what worries me most about the working classes
Is this: I think I might be one of them as well!