65 Pennies.

[Roaring Biscuit!]

Some background:  I have the good fortune, to still be a youthful little bastard, who can still get away with living with his parents, thus, me running out of money is thankfully not a completely ruinous catastrophy.  I recently spent £3 on going to a friends gig.  After this extreme spending, I realised that all the money I have in the world was contained in a piggy bank that I haven't opened in a very long time.  Unfortunately as an even younger youth I sucked at hoarding money.  I have 65 pence.  And for some reason I felt there was some poetic romanticism in that.

Anyway:




and a poemy/songy thing:

Cold copper columns of monetary needs,
that sit silently beneath crumbling societies,
while watching the green paper leaves,
shake in a shambolic breeze.

An everyday life of dystopian dreams,
gentlemen drowning in an opiate sea,
while watching the green paper leaves,
shake in a shambolic breeze.

While we walk,
Further and Further away,
from all the Money in the World.

Rich, famous replica faces look worn,
Ordinary people whose edges are torn,
while watching the paper leaves so folorn,
as they mourn the passing of a shambolic storm.

Endless celebrity Christ-like reborn,
wearing a dark metaphor, a crown of thorns,
and watching the paper leaves so folorn,
as the mourn the passing of a shambolic storm.

While we walk,
Further and Further away,
from all the Money in the World.


Comments probably appreciated.

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