The rats of Birmingham love the hollowed-out places,
They rumble in bin bags waiting to rupture,
Spilling ordure over the backs of scabs outsourcing the deal.
The rats abandoned the canals and industrial furnaces,
Abandoned the feral provender to fast food satiation,
The rats swerve against the back alley walls,
As sun-roasted stench drains and volcanic dumpsters,
Spew the regurgitated screeds of the bosses’ lies.
You reneged on your promise to pay the piper,
Your children will be next but the rats will return.
That tune, that epoch dance of sewer death,
Still you won’t pay, still you won’t pay up.
Clever as you appear, the rats will have the upper hand,
The rats of Birmingham are staying until the union deal is done.
by James O’Brien
