Is this what it’s come to, my struggles and strifes,
Breaking my back for taxes to pay rich men’s lives,
They grew fat on my labours the bastards in charge,
All the money I earnt, they took at amounts large.
I cry in my sleep after all that I’ve done,
Ne’re a slob scrounger, sat on me bum,
Great callused hands, and muscles a sore,
I scream and I shout nobody hears my great roar.
It this all that’s left of my years of toil?
A rotting dead cow and dry crusted soil?
Enough I can’t take, my life any longer,
So where do I go? This I do ponder.
The rich do they laugh, as I hang my head,
I wish those greedy bastards, yes I wish they were dead,
My bags they are packed and I’m ready to go,
Out to wherever my mind it may flow.
Not a penny you will get, no more from me,
I’m going to a land, where all folks can be free,
I’ll tread my long road where e’re it may roam,
But where ever it takes me, I know I’ll find home
Jack Wolfe Frost is the Eternal Rebel; he rebels against everything which may have the word “rules” or “behave” within it, whether explicit or implicit. Born in Sheffield, UK, in 1956; he first started writing in 1982, as a hobby--dreaming that perhaps one day he might try and publish something. In his working life, he has enjoyed success in many diverse areas, including running his own company twice. Now older and wiser, he has once again taken pen to paper--looking for conformity to smash and rules to break…