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 and billions spent,
On Universal Credit,
On mortgage and rent,
In a dysfunctional system,
A landlord’s fiefdom,

Where housing is rationed,
By greed,
Not need, 
By wealth,
Not health.

Payments cut,
Facilities shut,
Families evicted,
And convicted,
For being poor,
And sure enough,
An off the cuff,
Calculation,
Leads to speculation,
That the Tories,
Will remember the stories,
Of Dickens,
On the new English curriculum,
Especially Oliver Twist,
And the workhouse.