The streets are bare at ten-past three,
There are no crowds, there’s only me,
The butcher, baker, candle man,
Have stayed at home, it’s like a ban.
There is no bread, there is no cake,
No souvenirs back home to take,
To my old mam or bairnies three,
Just boarded shops and desolate me.
I turn my eyes up to the sky,
I make a fist, I shout out “Why?”
And from above the answer comes,
“No wheels must turn, sit on your bums.
There must not be an ounce of work,
And from your toil you all must shirk”
“Oh God,” I ask, “Then tell me do,
Do we stop work to honour you?”
But God just laughs, says: “Stupid skank,
We are all owned by Barclay’s Bank,
They have decreed this holiday,
I owe them dosh, do what they say!”