Gareth Bale

gareth bale
I just read it on the internet,
eighty-five million for Gareth Bale,
but I shut down the laptop
and head down the dark and
narrow staircase of my block
to check the mailbox.

Three letters for me,
one – a bank statement,
I better budget for this month if
I wanna have money left for the next,
two – an unpaid electricity bill,
the red letters warning me
to pay up or face a battle with
an army of bailiffs who prepare
to pillage my worthless flat,
three – a leaflet
with promotional offers from LIDL,
great, half price tins of tuna
and buy two get one free
pot noodles.

Eighty-five million for Gareth Bale,
I share this filthy flat
with an inbred psychopath
but hold on tight to every little hope
that one day,
maybe after years upon years
of hard work and a lucky break,
I might just be able to live
in a flat of my own
but I see that in this economic crisis,
the dream of owning your own home
is a form of madness.

Eighty-five million for Gareth Bale,
every time I walk down the high street
I pass endless rows of homeless folk
who beg for every penny they can put
towards a can of beer to further numb
the mind from thinking about their
nightmare reality.

Eight-five million for Gareth Bale,
last week a Spanish lady was evicted
from her one bedroom flat because
she had lost her job and was unable
to afford to pay the mortgage
but as the henchmen arrived to repossess
her life-long home
she jumped
out of the building’s seventh floor window
and died
as her fragile body splattered on the pavement.

Eight-five million for Gareth Bale,
there was a general strike last week
and everything was closed,
I marched among the people who
took to the streets in anger about
the government’s austerity measures,
we’re earning less
but have to pay more tax,
we’re paying higher bills
and have to pay more for public transport,

we’re all in this together
they say,
and everybody is suffering
they say,
everybody deserves education
they say,
as well as housing and health care
they say,
but the money just isn’t there
they say,
the money just isn’t there.

I just put on the TV and saw the
news again,
it’s the latest big transfer in
football again,
he’s a young
Welsh lad
with a good
left foot
and a price tag that screams
something is wrong.
Eighty-five million.

– Lennie Bezwik

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About bezwik

Lennie Bezwik is an English poet and lyricist who lives in Spain. Before getting into poetry, Bezwik was part of the London based UK Hip Hop scene, writing songs, producing tracks and performing live rap. Over the last few years, Bezwik has done a lot of travelling, drinking and writing. Nowadays, he sneaks off to dingy little Spanish bars at night and writes poems in his notebook. His biggest inspirations are homelessness, unemployment, booze, love and being dreamy.

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