How I wonder if any of your poor patients end up dead,
madly run down by you in your fancy Mercedes Benz
because your first name ain’t Jack or Charlie or Fred
and you find it hard to make the sort of special friends
we all need to truly move up in the world and be alive.
I wonder if I’m getting needles full of gunk in my arse,
gunk that took all my teeth and gave me a plastic palate,
because so many folk see Muslims as the lowest class
you in turn subjugate the schizophrenic like the dalit.
Because 12 years ago you said I was clearly paranoid
to think I was attacked via secret messages in The Age,
that all journalists are always too busy to be annoyed
by me, far too important, famous and wealthy to rage
at a poor no one who doesn’t even own a car or drive.