Its the babies I feel sorry for, little princes and princesses
Bright eyes staring round eyed from royal palatial pushchairs
Some of them almost the size of a pantomime stagecoach
All they'd need is a pair of dogs, pitbulls perhaps to pull the load
And a footfrog to drive them to market
Make a change from being squashed under shopping on the 410 bus
I watch them peeping through plastic
Staring at the boring blank wall in the babybuggy prison pen
No fun to be had there then let alone air
Hemmed in, jostled, smothered by bottoms and bellies and bursting breasts
Their bold mamas giving it some on the mobiles
Then narrowly missed by the drugdealers bike as the bus doors swing
To disgorge them all into the sacred Mall to consume.
They blink in the eye pricking yellow glare, smell synthetic soaps and essences
Progressing past miles of shoes, shiny clothes, toys.
Glittering, winking, flashing mobiles, monitors, plasma TV’s
And oh the noise, echoing clamour clatter and clang
Father Christmas, Reindeers, Jingle bells
Strapped into trolleys fighting for freedom down aisle after aisle
Festive food, piles of Produce, so very much too much
No wonder they scream, desolate howls racking our nerves.
Do you think they sense when they grow up
Just how much they'll need to buy merely to keep up
That only the very privileged super rich will afford the ultimate luxury
Of being able to sit quietly in a plain room with clean air
On a real wooden chair on their own in blessed silence
And just be.

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