The Workhouse

The Workhouse The image of the Victorian, Dickensian workhouse, Is ingrained, In our brain. It’s Oliver. A small skinny waif, Looking up at the parish beadle, A well-fed knave, Holding out his empty bowl, As the beadle, Begins to howl, In disbelief, That a boy on relief, Is asking for more. The workhouse, Was the resolution, To the large dilution, Of parish funds, Which for ages, Had subsidised, Farm workers’ wages. Fast forward to today, Zero hours contracts, And the gig economy. Ensure the rate, For workers’ pay, Is still so low, That it’s often, Subsidised by the state. Billions…

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