It was crisis day in the parliament
The house was hushed and still.
A member rose with a question
“Are we doomed to go downhill?”
“I am confident of an upturn”,
The PM made reply.
“If workers pay is held at bay,
We'll all be home and dry.”
“How true, how true”, cried the workers.
“Let's end this wicked strike.
We don't want a rise in wages,
They can stick it where they like.”
“Thank God, Thank God”, sobbed the bosses.
“There's faith on the factory floor.
And now we've got this extra lot
We'll give it to the poor.”
They filled their pockets with money
And ran with eager feet
Pressing their surplus profits
On the people in the street.
They moved among the dole queues
And boarded every bus
With streaming eyes and heartfelt cries
“You need it more than us”.
Soon all the people prospered
And the devil became a saint
Now the sober unions
Had exercised restraint.
The cities were filled with singing
And the sound of laughter spread
As hand took hand in the golden land
and pigs flew overhead.