There are two ladies who upstairs hide,
They have little interest in the world outside.
Each day is built around the washing,
An endless cycle of soap suds sloshing.
Rarely do they venture through the door,
Dattime telly being the law.
They pass the windows with chalk white faces.
If the truth be known, they’re OCD cases.
The world beyond is all but forgotten,
Though most of it is stinking rotten.
Country broke, people lost,
No idea what the future will cost.
A host on which the feckless feed,
Licking their cherries, while the taxpayers bleed.
If only people looked out, not in,
Perhaps there’d be a little less sin.
But when, one day, this was pointed out,
The ladies upstairs gave a lusty shout,
Uncomprehending to the last,
They closed the door; very fast,
Like two huge gerbils in a tread-mill,
They were perfect strangers to good old free will.