Pounds, shillings and pence

Each end of the month losing cents

 

The cat stares with horror at Aldi’s own

She doesn’t understand we can afford to put warheads on Trident

Aimed at no one

But not on our plate

 

 

Pounds, shillings and pence

Each end of the month losing cents

 

 

I make a mixture of leftovers from the cupboard

Pasta, sugar, tea leaves stale bread crumbs

Telling myself  it’s an exotic meal from Timbuktu

I may invite the neighbours but I can smell their risotto meal wafting through

 

 

Pounds, shilling s and pence

Each end of the month losing cents

 

 

I  borrow  money to pay Paul or is it  Petering out

I leave the overdraft floating

The gas bill hovering overhead

Tell the mortgage people I’d be happy if they were dead

 

Pounds

Shillings

And 1 pence

I’ll gamble that at the 4.20 at Newmarket

Now that

Make Sense

 

© David R Mellor 2013