It’s not that things are difficult,

It’s not that things are difficult,

Building a pyramid might be

Difficult

Although you have to ask for whom?

The slaves who gave their lives

The slavers or the designers,

Perhaps the Pharaohs, who had to contend with

Fickle Gods and clever priests

Promoting calumny and murder,

As well as envious family members

Plotting to dethrone them

Or to bury them alive

Inside elaborately carved sarcophagi

Surrounded by dead relatives

Who chose the wrong side.

Not that you need to agree

But hosting a world cup seems to include

Trampling over the blood of the many

Too much money

Stolen from the pockets

Of poor boys

Who can still be found playing the game

With a ball made of rags and used condoms

On a strip of earth

Cleared of landmines.

What a cheek some people have

Moaning about property prices

Whilst driving a roller

Living in tactless luxury

As the hoi polloi go hungry

And expensively priced missiles rain down

All around them,

However, you may look at it,

Say it quietly

If you like,

But on those occasions

When old bones lock

Overused muscles refuse to work

And the ache

That always lies

Deep down in the pit of your stomach

Threatens to engulf

Carefully prepared defences

Protecting the pain of loss

From being revealed,

Then just for that moment

When the unwary sorrow resurfaces

Just to be casually picked off by a callous sniper,

Then, this one time

It might be alright to say

In a whisper, if you like

“My goodness, but life can be difficult

Sometimes…

Can’t it.”