Pay Up
We’d like to take the moolah
We’d like to lick the cream
If there is gold, our sleeves are rolled:
We’d like to work its seam
We’d like to fill our satchels
We’d like to rub the coin
If there’s a club where we can grub
For extra, let us join
We’d like to fleece Threadneedle
We’d like to raid the vault
And here’s our case: we think our place
Is way above the salt
We’d like to line our pockets
With balls as seen in snooker
But nugget-weighted (and post-dated)-
A filthy load of lucre
Alas, the humble people
Are tightening their belts
Or we might rake in sides of bacon
(We think of little else)
It might not seem too clever
To take our proper cut –
But we can scheme and we can dream.
Let’s leave this door unshut
IPSA says we’re bankrupt
And IPSA’s independent
It knows our loss, and offers gloss:
Oh let us be resplendent
Click here for an article in the Guardian
Click here to buy Bill’s poetry collection Ringers
