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For every house turned “serviced stay,”
A home for someone fades away.
One key exchanged for profit’s gleam,
One family lost their living dream.
Where laughter rang, now curtains fall,
Cold silence whispers through the hall.
Each polished suite, each weekend let,
Breeds sorrow, debt, and deep regret.
They’re buying homes, they’re buying streets,
Where once were children’s dusty feet.
From hotel chains to humble doors,
Their greedy fingers clutch for more.
Serco’s web is wide and deep,
They profit while the poor folk weep.
Landlords tempted by their gold,
Evict the hearts their walls once hold.
Five-year deals and seven-year lies,
Refurbished homes, a nation’s cries.
Contracts signed in hidden rooms,
While cities fill with silent tombs.
Where laughter rang, now curtains fall,
Cold silence whispers through the hall.
Each polished suite, each weekend let,
Breeds sorrow, debt, and deep regret.
“British? Back o’ the queue,” they sneer,
As tents like mushrooms now appear.
Office blocks and towered cells,
Become the place where struggle dwells.
Families once so full of grace,
Now fight to keep a resting place.
The working poor, the zero-paid,
By profit’s knife are cut and flayed.
Serviced homes for those who can,
But none for child or working man.
The rent’s too high, the wage too small,
The ladder’s gone, they watch it fall.
Where laughter rang, now curtains fall,
Cold silence whispers through the hall.
Each polished suite, each weekend let,
Breeds sorrow, debt, and deep regret.
Developers smile with practiced charm,
While nations crumble, arm by arm.
They justify but can’t excuse,
The human cost, the soul they bruise.
And as they trade our roofs for gold,
The heart of home grows weak, grows cold.
Yet truth will rise, and voices flame—
To halt this theft in housing’s name.
Copyright © Peter Moring 2025
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Please Click The Image Below To Learn HOW Serviced Accommodation Has Become The ‘Cancer’ That Is Seeing The ‘Organised Destruction’ Of Family Life Internationally.
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