Nobody wants to be Middle Class
“what’s that you ask?
No, I’m not middle class,
I’m from the urban inner city,
It’s been quite hard for me you see,
I hold a professionally paid job, and run my own business on the side,
But it hasn’t been a smooth ride,
I’m still from the ends at heart,
And hate art galleries,
I’m still down to earth,
I’m still in touch with reality”
“All hail the underdog, our righteous king!
Being underprivileged is everything!”
They raised their fists filled with connections and access,
Blinded by a strange self-righteousness,
Speaking of a world which they once knew,
But now from which they are far removed,
O isn’t the temptation so sweet,
To pretend as if everything’s not neat?
To pride yourself in a narrative of struggle,
And carve out a more ‘noble’ identity?
The lines we draw may pride us,
But we’re all looking for the same thing,
Acceptance, recognition, to be something,
To say we’ve done it ourselves,
To receive all the glory,
But with all this struggle to prove,
Surely there has to be a better story?