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Thursday 21st June 2007.

The battle bus has drawn in,i climb in,the familiar smell of old leather has not faded from the nostrils,the old official picket banners still lie in a heap on the back seat.I grasp one,lift feel the strength in my hand think of all those who have gone before me.
Music crawls from beneath old bus tickets,a can of soft drink lingers, then rolls down the middle of the bus, i watch, take my seat and listen as the roll becomes hollow,thin tin-y,as much has been management words curling around the dark clouds that have been pressing these past few weeks;i do not with hold the right of management to boss, shuffle, castrate, there words aloft,it is simply the plain face lies they tell, the broken promises,that sting stronger than nettles on a hot day crawling around the ball sac in glee.They are the wasps of the modern world,how tired i am of being bum fucked by those i do not want to feel up against my back,their cocks are not worth the salt and pepper to taste.
Unless the Martians invade..i think this is going to be the summer of discontent...dare it grow to the miners strike of 1984..may nettles forbid,such thought but i cannot help but think of it..the music is growing now, bare faced, bare backed hungry cocks hang from the ceiling out of reach, the thrashing symbols, the crash of voice so out of tune it fixes for more and there is time...how old is this music 30 years..gosh have not the bumble bees over come anything..." Holiday in the Sun "....notes, tunes, fingers pick,but not strong enough to over come the centuries of being thrashed by hawthorn laws, how far must i now touch the forelock,be grateful for the few crumbs thrown on the bird table,even the magpies are treated better,perhaps that is because they can shoot them without fear....for me i can see the gas chambers come once more.
The wireless spat today..i lingered when i should not,the curse was the gap between rich and poor...an e-mail was screeched...i wondered why it should be breathed..did they want riots or are we now too weak, brow beaten, by the hollow ballot box to even whisper what is fair....in short, in a tiny space the writer wanted to portray..that those who failed to excel at learning,had no right to a better life or perhaps life at all..i do not want a field of strawberries.just simply a punnet.
I might well be called thick,dim,a sad case of working class, fit for only emptying litter bins,dragging my flabby cock hither,but are not strawberries for all.

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