The Government has plans for Fatima although she does not know it yet: there'll be no jobs for a (black) ballerina so she should learn to Cyber, whatever that means; mastering Python, more likely to input. Drudge in the machine, there's no fate finer.
The Government has plans for Fatima: now that they've filled the queue for Cyber, it's fruit picking she should go, or down the drains beneath the tube trains, robustness of a trained physique to show - a life really plugged in to the mains.
The Government has plans for Fatima, although she does not know it yet. The work-camp solves many problems. Ah, food's tough to chew but she'll get used to it. Still wishing on a star beyond the wire? Well, soon she'll be a part of that cold choir.
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Oh Dear
(Joe's Thu'um)
I went to see my birthday boy - "Are we coming round to Daddy's house?" Nineteen years, the world's annoy. "Spitting on the wooden floors on Fridays."
Up in the hills in Derbyshire - "Are we coming round to Daddy's house?" Buxton road closed. Can't pass here. "Spitting on the wooden floors on Fridays"
So I went round by Macclesfield - "Are we coming round to Daddy's House" the switchback road this time must yield. "Spitting on the wooden floors on Fridays"
Nine months since I came up there, "Are we coming round to Daddy's house?" stuck by Covid Crisis in Australia. "Spitting on the wooden floors on Fridays."
Pleased to see me, we sat in the sun - "Are we coming round to Daddy's house" till his reiterations took a different tone. "Spitting on the wooden floors on Fridays"
"He can go out for walks; he can go in the car. No. We can't go round to Daddy's house. We'll all go for a walk next time Daddy's here. We don't talk about spitting do we, now?"
"Stopped attacking the driver, panics less, it's clear. No we can't go round to Daddy's house." settled down a lot since you were last here. We don't talk about spitting, now , do we?"
"How old are you Joe?" "Nine.... Thirteen?" There's ten now eleven twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. eighteen, nineteen. How old are you, Joe?" "Ten... Nineteen."
"Spitting at Henry by the living room doors." No we can't go round to Daddy's, anyway. "Spitting at the WOODEN FLOORS... THE FlOORS The FLOORS on FRI on FRIDAAAAAY!"
"Now you don't want Daddy to go right away?" "No. No. Sorry. Joe will be good. No more. Spitting at the WOODEN FLOOR... THE FlOOR The FLOORS on FRI on FRIDAAAAAY!"
"He's full of anger. I think I should go. He's working his mouth, spittle gathering slow. Flobs at my departing coat - I skip off so. Hell-shouts resonate to send me below.
I went to see my birthday boy - "Are we coming round to Daddy's house?" Nineteen years, the world's annoy. "Spitting on the wooden floors on Fridays."
