They kindly stole my voice, but it don’t show.

I lost my  own voice  sixty  years ago
My knees are aching  like the devil’s heart
Now the pain has come up from below

My hands are red and swollen, so it goes,
Around my body, hops from part to part
I lost my  own voice  sixty years  ago

Oh, dear heart, it only goes to show
The existential piss of Jean-Paul Sartre
The ache, the pain, have risen from below.

The teacher said my  social class was low
More, my Dobble accent was not smart
I lost my own voice then,  yet it died slow.

Today I’m in the upper class, you know!
I taught pure maths in Oxford,  a paid tart.
They kindly stole my voice, but it don’t show.

I’d like to hear my mam and daddy talk
I’d like to go with grandad for a walk
I’ve lost my own voice sixty  years  heart-sore
Now the rage is rising like bread dough.