Money

 Quarterly, is it, money reproaches me: 
 'Why do you let me lie here wastefully? 
I am all you never had of goods and sex,
 You could get them still by writing a few cheques.'

So I look at others, what they do with theirs:
 They certainly don't keep it upstairs.
By now they've a second house and car and wife:
 Clearly money has something to do with life 

- In fact, they've a lot in common, if you enquire:
 You can't put off being young until you retire,
And however you bank your screw, the money you save
 Won't in the end buy you more than a shave.

I listen to money singing. It's like looking down
 From long French windows at a provincial town,
The slums, the canal, the churches ornate and mad
 In the evening sun. It is intensely sad.

Form: Lyric

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