It’s a holiday
No more flying economy
It’s a villa in the sun
It’s my resignation letter
The door flung open to something better
It’s always having fun
It’s the for sale sign outside this old house
It’s the keys to a country pile
It’s no more Ford fiesta
It’s not quite a private jet, but
It’s cruising down the lanes in style
It’s providing for my family
It’s helping out my mates
It’s eating from the silver spoon
and the poshest china plates
It’s adiós to humdrum
It’s sparing no expense
It’s never having to put things back
or look after the last few pence
It’s endless possibilities
It’s ‘take me to this place, driver’
Whilst it oozes promise in my hand
Once scratched…
it’s just the waste of a fiver
Poetry for Dullards 