The Bones of Clones

Imagine a world of clones
with property no-one owns.
No ups no downs,
But fabricated blues and clowns.
Picture it –
it’s a heap a shit.
London Bridge in the morning,
exodus is dawning,
as hundreds a thousands a office workers
show they ain’t shirkers.
All goin’ one way – across the river,
all looking the same, makes me shiver.
Men in suits,
women in boots.
Briefcase and brolly –
out to earn their lolly.
If they ain’t clones what is,
their work – conveyor belt biz.
They each have bosses without any face –
is this the human, or the rat, race?
Proletariat, each woman and man,
just doin’ the best they can.
And the corporations sell their products very quick,
because marketing will make you sick
of what you bought six months ago –
it’s now just rubbish, fit only to throw.
‘Cos marketeers and R & D
have found better products for you and me.
And that’s the game,
such an awful shame.
But we clones just chase our tails
so that capitalism prevails.
Make money, make goods,
give it back to capitalist hoods.
They make you make another product
so that they can once again abduct
the wages they have just given you and me.
Are we just working for free?
Work, earn, want, spend,
use, throw, keep, lend.
As if this viscous circle ain’t enough,
where the hell do we get the stuff?
that corporations dig out the ground,
demolishing nature all around,
just to produce the next big runner
And to pack it in hundreds in a big ten-tonner.
Ship it all over land and seas,
creating fumes that bring Mother to her knees.
Scarring the land, polluting the airs –
as long as we get what we want – who cares?
Dig it up, burn it down,
sod the forests, let’s go to town
for production
and seduction
of our customer’s desires,
before he retires
and becomes a burden to the state –
rather leave him to his fate.
Third world is still going cheap.
This is where the big corps reap
a harvest of materials and labour –
fuck our under privileged neighbour.
Steal their freedom, ruin their culture,
kill their elephants, rhino and vulture.
Don’t matter, ’tis all part of the game
that we run in the name
of progress,
success,
leisure and fun.
Forget we are killing all under the sun.
The hole in our skies
and how we prize
as much as we can out from under our earth
from the day we die, back to our birth.
Now scientists,
backed by business,
it is well known,
replicate frogs and monkeys, clone for clone.
Just proves what we’re here for,
we are prototypes, one, two, three and four.
‘Cos when men are cloned
they’ll be completely owned.
Under full control and in the power
of capitalistic gods, hour for hour.
Twenty four hours a work a day.
Clones don’t need leisure, nor any pay.
But they can’t buy products any more,
and they’d all want the same, that’s for sure.
So we just need one big monopole.
No more work – just dole.
That’s it man, the bosses are gods,
we are just poor little sods

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