Reds Under Their Beds

Reds Under Their Beds

Sleep tight, Mr Bourgeois,
In that bed that looks so fine.
Did you enjoy your feast,
How was the wine?

A good vintage, don't you think?
It was fermented from our blood,
Seasoned with our sweat,
And bottled by our toil.

Did you lap it up, Mr Bourgeois?
The essence of our life,
The stuff of our dreams.
Dried out like winter husks,
We give you all that we are.

Like a vampire you suck our blood,
Like a demon you steal our souls,
Like a twisted Oliver,
You forever cry out for more.

Thousands starve,
Or are put to the sword,
While you whine as you dine.
Our planet is plundered and raped,
Bought and sold like a bauble,
While you feast like a Lord.

But watch out, Mr Bourgeois.
There's something in the shadows,
Have you checked out the closet?
Don't forget under the bed.

That's where you'll find your worst fear.

You must have heard of us.
Fairy tales and old demons, of course,
Long put to rest by Old Nanny Snatch

Think again,
As you climb beneath those fine silk sheets
Reds wove them.
Reds sewed them.
Reds made everything you are.

So sleep tight, Mr Bourgeois.
Pull the sheets up over your head,
Because there are Red Bugs under your bed
And they're coming out to bite.

Mark Cantrell,
Bradford, 25 July 2000

Copyright (c) July 2000. All rights reserved.