Not my baby

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We call it, food preparation.
They call it, work.
We pay bottom dollar.
They take it, no perks.

Starvation, close our eyes.
Exploitation, close our eyes.
Cry baby, as long as it’s not my baby.

We tut at a slow Google.
We curse the providers and the phones.
We skip over pictures of
little kid factories
filled with skinny baggy bones.

Child labour, close our eyes.
Rusting water, close our eyes.
Fry baby, as long as it’s not my baby.

We shout foul at 2 pounds per litre
for our tax-heavy fun
fill up on sweeties and slurp fantasy coffees
and switch the sat nav to stun.

Mugabe, close our eyes.
Famine, close our eyes.
Die baby, as long as it’s not my baby.

How awful does your life have to be
that a suffocating truck
and an insecure future
is a better option?
The life of English riley,
washing cars,
packing boxes,
minimum wage.

Cattle trucks, roll and rattle trucks,
cross the border bitten by the frost trucks.

Desparation, close our eyes.
Separation, close our eyes.
My baby, as long as it’s not my baby.

We call them parasites,
send them back to face their fate
clerical errors, statistical oversights.

Torture, close our eyes.
Guilt, close our eyes.
Bye baby, as long as it’s not my baby.

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