Skint

Feel the indigence approaching Think of no-one and of nothing else Heart-breaking, all consuming Penniless pauper, from a storybook romance “No mon, no fun” I hear that No nothing, no life No growing full or fat Who to turn to, who to run from Incipient pauperdom permeates every thought A threadbare mind to match threadbare costume Unravelled, patchy, overwhelmingly fraught Never overburdened with wealth But enough to cover simple costs like clothes and heat and food It should never have to come to this but it has Only I can lay the blame upon myself Not a lifetime of jeremiads Some better stories were once told Those times a yellowed memory now Heart and soul, languid, limp and sere Reduced to meagre, mere being No possessions means no feeling We all know that. Pride as spent as the money itself How poor, truly sorry A pauper born, God help me