Struggle

I am like a rolling old coke can
on a wind swept street, kicked around
the gutter by the toes of their feet.

I live in a wig-wam while they're
in there palaces, the wheeling, dealing,
stealers, magpies called the rich.

Cuckooed politicians robbing all
the nests, promising us the earth
like a plaster to a wound.

They wolf down their swannies all of
lifes precious things, while I sit on
the rubbish tip, sifting through the bins.