Poetry, Uncategorized

OLD HABITS DIE HARD

Old Habits Die Hard

 

That Celtic Tiger you thought was dead,

Replaced by the Rat of Recession instead,

Still echoes in the repossessed pads of the glitterati

Who’ve tightened their belts, but do SO miss the party.

 

Judged by mini-breaks and brand new cars,

They compare their lives to movie stars.

Competitive consumerism is alive and well:

In the Ladies room of a well-known hotel

 

Friends compete and, oops, drop names

From underneath their blow-dried manes,

“Santa’s bringing an iPhone 5

To dear little Cosmo, he’s only five!”

 

Wholeheartedly agreeing that aging sucks,

Admiring Botox and tummy tucks,

The horror of having a wrinkled face,

Un-plumped bits or hair out of place.

 

The pressure to stay looking twenty-three

For at least the next half century,

Plastic surgery’s on the rise

No-one’s beautiful in her own eyes.

 

Can’t afford to buy food for the larder,

But she’ll still buy the bag ‘n’ shades from Prada,

Homemade facials & DIY blow-dry,

Designer ‘vintage’ from the bring-and-buy.

 

Moet’s made way for Prosecco,

Lidl and Primark now the way to go,

Not a whiff of Versace anywhere,

Still wearing her Laboutins from last year.

 

The Bank is spoiling all her fun

By cancelling her cards one by one,

And negative equity in varying themes

Haunts her sober, daytime dreams.

 

She’s eighteen months been out of work

But loathe to sell her sporty Merc.

Luxurious habits are hard to kill,

But don’t underestimate her will,

 

In her smooth and hairless guise,

To face Generation Spend’s demise,

And confront her braying creditors’ chorus,

Looking skinny, tanned and gorgeous.

 

© Alex Barton 2013

Advertisements
Standard
Poetry, Uncategorized

RECESSIONARY RANT

Savings all gone down the drain

Credit card refused again

Bailiffs knocking at the door

Demand my home and then some more

Pension stolen by the bankers

Theiving, grabbing lot of wankers.

 

No money, house or job: no life

The neighbour’s messing with my wife

A nicer bloke than him by far

But he drives better car

A twenty-twelve four-by-four

Mine’s a hatch-back with two doors.

 

Leave her, divorce her, that’s what I ought’er

But I’m scared she’ll take our daughter.

Since I’ve left the gravy train

Life will never be the same

Our good Lord, He takes the piss

There must be more to life than this?

Standard