While Winders sits upon his arse
and wharfies toil in weathers
the million dollar ruling class
won’t lift a fucking finger
to give the raise the union says
is piffling when you reckon
sixteen percent of Winders cut’s
a cool six hundred thousand.
Just think of that, this fat fat cat
who purrs while still presiding
on navvies offered two per cent
of bugger-all of nothing.
Of such obscene and galling
stuff the poor must swallow
daily, the heart of revolutions
once, perhaps tomorrow, maybe.
How can he sleep, this Winders
man, if man we still can call him,
when he’s content to fill his nest
and watch his workers struggle?
What did we do, how did we come
to such a gross deception,
when acronyms like CEO
entitle men to mansions?
The parable of Lazarus
I offer now to Winders
that while he’s on this side
of death, a judgment fast
approaching, he gives a share
that’s equal, fair, to men
who make his living, those
wharfies’ backs he’s riding.
Jeffrey Paparoa Holman