it tasted like a weed and it grew out from the soil
that some farmer had prepared before we tasted of his toil
delicately clusters of the weed became our food
until no more lies or mischief could be told, for it was good

but the mixture wasn't right and the vine from which it sprang
needed blending into mixtures, into labels that began
to appeal to all the masses, for appeal is what they sought
to return to us the profits of what's traded, sold and bought

so our wages soon became the source of rumours far and wide
were they dirty, were they clean, was there something we should hide?
were we paid for our fair labour, was there someone else to chide?
should we blame it on the soil, the seed, or earth where we abide

we toiled a little harder to appease the leaches' song
and we tried to grow some more of what we're growin all along
so the fantasy grew funnier, the more we grew they bought
and profits they returned to us, the justice that we sought
 

Ian Kerridge  1995               back to Poetry Index