Don’t take your car to the carwash
It’s the new slave trade
And the lads who work in the carwash
Are their master’s slaves.
They work for a pittance, if they are lucky,
Sleep like dogs in whatever space they can find
While our ignorance of the life they lead
And the life they have left behind
Makes us as bad as the masters of old
Buying men the slave traders sold.
There is nothing so bad as to wash the cars
Of the people who drive while so blind
To the sufferings around them everywhere
As far as the eye can see
We step out from our comfortable homes to drive
To the Malls, to the shopping parades
Complaining of exhaustion while sipping tea
Not knowing or caring how it was made.
While the slaves in our towns are unseen, unknown
Carrying their sorrows in silence,
Writing unsent letters home “I am fine, I’ve a job,
Soon I’ll send money home, I’m so glad
I met a man from the motor trade.”
