My wallet no longer bulges
with notes and Condem are too busy
stuffing their throats
with foie gras and caviar
to care about where
my wonga has gone.

All I got was the milk
of feigned ‘human kindness’
and in my blindness
I lapped it up.
Not realising it was sour
until it had passed
the eleventh hour.

Then the bitterness
turned my stomach.
Flummoxed
by their double speak
my situation turned me weak
as I used to be
a paragon of virtue.

I no longer need a wallet
and even closed my account
as I carry my money around
in a sack, making withdrawals
while my head’s be-tighted
and I don’t intend to give any back.

What’s good for the goose
is good for the gander; as apparently
robbing is all the rage,
but forget banker’s bonuses,
there not for me,
but maybe soon I’ll be knighted.