21/08/2010

POEMS

Con-dem-nation
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Young Nick sold his soul to Old Harry
Now he sits in Whitehall’s ivory tower
Counting thirty pieces of silver
The price of the pants of power

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Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?
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Don’t fall to your knees in the Temple of Mammon, don’t worship Aaron’s
calf
Don’t pray to the diamond-studded gods of holy bling
Don’t go to gilded El Dorado, don’t be loadsamoney’s aficionado
Don’t hope to hear the jackpot sing kerching!
‘Cos Midas was a misery guts, a right touchy sod
Croesus rarely laughed on his way to the bank
A whopping wad of wonga won’t make you dance a happy conga
You’ll catch affluenza when your every cheque is blank
Do you need your horses’ hooves shod in solid silver?
Must you simply have that Mustique villa tan?
Must the golf course on your yacht be made of silk and ocelot?
Must your eggs be fried in a golden frying pan?
No! So be fabulously frugal, not filthy, stinking rich
Let a certain spartan splendour be your goal
Dress like Worzel Gummidge, have a rummage in the jumble sale of life
Live on a poet’s income, save your soul
Get philanthropic, renounce all worldly goods
Dispense largesse and keep what’s just sufficient
Share what’s spare for other’s welfare like Tony “Rockefeller” Blair
Ease your conscience and be tax efficient
But don’t burn your megabucks in a bonfire on a Hebridean isle
Don’t stuff a zillion in the first collecting tin that’s rattling on your street
Pay it all into the NatWest account numbered one-zero-eight-four-eight-nine
two-seven (sort code sixty-forty-eleven)
And when it clears I’ll give you a receipt
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