Silas Thorne's Journal

O god let me borrow more money
before the bank collapses
for we've no room for couch potatoes
in our lounges, gone back
to wooden armchairs hard as bridges,
and the state stole all our backyard profits
from our once-lawn market gardens.

It's now hide under a sock Sunday
a death shock for my finance crumble
and I'm a horrid tangle of bedclothes
with the washing half done.