DLA

Here in the UK, DLA (short for Disability Living Allowance) is a benefit given out to people with long term illnesses and disabilities. The assessment and judging criteria are getting ridiculous and there have been many cases of needy people getting deemed ‘fit for work’. DLA has mostly been replaced by PIP (Personal Independence Payment). Having a serious mental illness, this is my own experience…

DLA

Come on in, come on in
Take a paltry plastic seat
I’ll be judgemental and discreet
We’ll get your disability claim
Set in concrete
Get these government lies complete.
Can you walk unaided – fifty metres?
A hundred?
Without a walking stick?
Do you wake up and you’ve pissed the bed
Do your psychiatric meds make you sick?
And who does your cooking when you’re alone at home?
Do you cook like that celebrity Gordon Ramsey
Or is it a Chinese takeaway over the telephone?
Is your knee replacement made of chrome?

Do you walk with a pronounced limp?
Do your friends take the piss, do they call you a wimp?
Do you use a motorized wheelchair?
I’m sure you know we really don’t care.
As we watch and we wait in our catch you out lair.
We really don’t give a shit
If your mind is split, if your wrists you’ve slit, if you’ve lost your grit.
We just want to prove you are fit for work
As bitch faced assessor sits there with a demonic smirk.
and the government machine that is full of jerks.

Can you reach the kitchen light?
That’s ten points off, we are always right.
You don’t deserve this benefit handout
We don’t care about your shitty plight
We don’t care that you have to live to fight
Every fucking day and night.
Do you take your crazy meds?
Dd you hear, you faker, what I said?
Do you wake all night or sleep restlessly in your bed?
Can I see inside your lying, denying head?

Because we will catch you out
We will surely catch you out
And we will bring down the weight of our wrath
And you will suffer, you will go without.
Are you crazy all the time?
Is your mind out of line
With reality and is your grasp on sanity fine?
Because you’re wasting your precious time and mine
If you think the insane deserve a quality of life
Living your life on the edge of a serrated knife
Causing society lunatic bullshit and strife.

We don’t give handouts to manic depressives
We don’t give handouts to anyone
Who doesn’t fit into our point scoring criteria.
We just fuck them off and send them to monetary Siberia.
And show us the scores on the doors Irene
And you don’t score the Jackpot, not today, drama queen!
We are the DWP
We don’t give our dosh to any old blagger
It’s never you but always me, me, me
Our purse is full of bullshit not sickness money
Whatever you say falls on deaf ears and granite hearts
You will see

So, take your precious health
It’s not a passport to cushy wealth
You are the scourge of society
In this life nothing is free
Nothing is fucking free.

© Sarah Drury 2019

Taking away my working tax credits

Working tax credit

My working tax credit, my working tax credit
They’re taking away my working tax credit!
They say I am working, that I am a poet
That poetry pays well and don’t they just know it.
I‘m earning too much and that I am a big hit
Don’t they know that they’ve put me right in the fat pig shit.
Money don’t grow on trees, you can’t fake it or grow it
And with Brexit a coming we all will be poor Brits
And being a poet, the tax scapegoat coat fits
I’ll be selling my body to pilots in cockpits
If the tossers don’t sort it out.

My working tax credit, my working tax credit
They’re taking away my working tax credit
And soon I’ll be living on bacon and beans
With a side dish of spam for I won’t afford greens
And a glass of tap water for lager is pricy
And the men at the foodbank are rugged and spicy
And the chips at the chippy are soggy and dicey
And the price of a haddock makes it highly unlikely
That I will eat a decent meal
If the tossers don’t sort it out.

My working tax credit, my working tax credit
They’re taking away my working tax credit
And soon I’ll be wearing the bones of me arse
So it looks like Primark cos my knickers are sparse
And buying from Oxfam is a bleedin farce
Cos they’ve got no fat trousers to cover me arse.
And the blouses don’t cover my ample tits
And I feel suicidal when nothing good fits.
So a naked poet I will be
if the tossers don’t sort it out.

My working tax credit, my working tax credit
They’re going to stop my working tax credit
Boris, I bet you don’t have to sign on
With your arse on your chair in your capitalist lair
and your tory possie pushing more into poverty
You’re all heartless bastards, you really don’t care
and the children are starving and benefits are sanctioned
and the country is fucked and the system’s not fair.
So get off your arses you idle pen pushers
And sort out my money – NOW!

© Sarah Drury 2019