I am working class
I am working class.
I know the nitty-gritty, get yer hands dirty, get stuck in, have a cuppa.
I know the trust y’neighbour, love yer family, take care of each other.
I know the no illusions, no grand delusions of one another.
I know the polar opposites of fascist skinheads verses diversity lovers,
never judge a punk book by its cover.
I know the pride of achievers and the never-behind-leavers. Acting like there’s nothing in it.
I know the “know yer roots”, the “fill yer boots”, the ‘you’ve no limits’.
I know hard-worked hands, the way someone stands, that life has been harsh.
I know the nicotine stains, the pub-‘drains’, life’s snuffed short – too unjust to ignore.
I know the social limits, the reality in it, the place we’re s’ppose to take.
I know the internalised, inherited doubt, the self-imposed hurdles we place.
I know the riots, the fires, the anger, the fury, repeated “never-again”s.
I know the hopelessness, the hope, the never give up, one final fight more.
I know the interconnections of the unjustness of how the rich treat the poor.
I know all of these things, I’ve seen them all, and I know so much more.
I am working class. I know.