LullabyIn half-heeled homes on terraced streetsthe suburbs sing their psalms:the charger buzz, the deadlock click,the shrieking, far-off car alarm.I’m sorry love, it’s nothing much -a carb and protein fix.Remember how we used to eatbefore the kids knocked us for six?Then here again: the half-bought couch,the supermarket wine,the drip-drip of our Netflix fix,the whittling of our brittle time.A soggy packed lunch Friday waitsso keep me from the sack.I can't admit that this is itbut she’s got meetings back-to-back:And so, to that familiar song:Oh, you go up, I won't be long.The sad refrain to Big Ben's bong -Yes, you go up I won't be long.And now it's Newsnight, Question Time,I tell myself that things are fineas callow SPADS, unreal like simsall sing their grim familiar hymnsAnd this is what we’ll leave our kids:the safety net in pieces,the wolves well versed in double-baawith tell-tale bloodstains down their fleeces.What will I leave? Vented spleen?Four-lettered verbal litter?A spray of righteous leftist bileat people just like me on Twitter?Young, so young and yet so weary ,thumbs like scatterguns.Another day of useless ire.Exhausted, I ignored my sonsI’ve never cast a selfish vote,nor backed a winner yetbut here I sit in up-lit comfort,am I really that upset?I sing along to Britain’s song -I pick my place among the throngI sing their words so I belong -You go up, I won’t be long.But look around the towns and shiresat all these gleaming steel-glass spiresand retails parks and malls so dearand tell me who is thriving here.Apocalyptic Friday salesand zero hour contract failsoff-shore fixes, bedroom taxwhile banks and business tip their hatsto politicians flush with chipsand healthcare firm directorshipsthe safe seats, and consultanciesthat wring-out our democracy.And couples like us, cleaved in twowith no idea what we can dobut proffer up a dour loveto things that can’t empower usor knock back booze or laugh it off,make strongholds under covers,or shelve our reason now and thento scream, scream at each other.