Farewell, dear cheques. You go the way
Of Hun and Goth and Tartar
And shops shut on the seventh day
And fruit juice as a starter.
It's hard to work up into wrath
Your imminent demise,
And hard to make one's front lip froth
When whispering goodbyes.
Will I be (let's say) over-wrought, owed
Money by a stranger?
Will I miss scribbling down your sort-code?
Unlikely, and no danger.
I may miss your enigma, sure,
Your sudden strange arrival,
Or writing, miss my signature,
But argue your survival? –
That would be hard. My sympathies
To all your kith and kin,
But you've become a paper tease
Beside my chip and pin.
When you have travelled into Dark
Like Lymeswold, cold and lonely,
I'll miss, when I must make my mark
That curious use of ONLY.