Four Pound Jeans
I bought some jeans
For just four pounds,
I liked the look and the sound
Of parting with just a few coins,
The price of a cuppa and a slice of cake,
A bargain and no mistake.
I looked at the label and it read
“Made in Vietnam” or Indonesia or
China or India or Myanmar
Or perhaps it was made by some Bangladeshi instead.
What did it matter? Four quid for a pair of jeans!
And that was all.
A pair of jeans made by workers paid a pittance,
In a dimly lit factory hall.
Never seeing the sun.
Not allowed to talk, just work
A job is a job, it’s not meant for fun.
Working 14 hours shifts all year long.
No holidays, sick leave or maternity pay,
Sweating in overcrowded sweat shops
Just so I can say to all my friends,
Look at these jeans, they were cheap as chips
Does my bum look big in them?
Does it hang ok on my hips?
I hope they won’t run or shrink in the wash.
But it doesn’t really matter,
Because the cost to me was so small.
A few quid that’s all.
And I rarely think how it can be,
That these jeans were so cheap.
Cut and dyed and stitched and made
In a rundown street,
By people living on a dollar a day.
With families to feed.
Who could never in their exhausted dreams,
Afford a four pound pair of jeans.
