Luck an’ fortune passed you by, born suckin’ a wooden spoon.
Thought with hard work an’ dedication you could reach for the moon.
But the weight of the more needy, pulled you under, you nearly/almost drowned.
No-one’s bin left behind but no-one got off the ground!
Findin’ it hard to make ends meet, things couldn’t be much worse.
On your back, workin’ from home, puttin’ coppers in your purse.
At least the taxman don’t see it, ‘cept when he’s knockin’ at your door.
He’ll strip you to the bone an’ then you’re back to bein’ poor.
All your strivin’ an’ ambition, grabbin’ (big) bulls by the horns!
Those years of doin’ without, left you clutchin’ at thin straws.
Hope always springs eternal, maybe the tide will turn.
When faith ‘n’ hope have died, strike a match an’
Watch it burn! :|| (repeat to fade)
©9.3.2020 Andrew Robert Chapman
On your back, workin’ from home, puttin’ small coin in your purse.
When faith ‘n’ hope have died, light a match an’
He’ll strip you beyond nothin’ an’ then you’re back to bein’ poor.