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Standing at an ATM
Card in hand,
Machine accepts it
With a automated sigh
As coked up rich cunts
Canter by, laughing,
Smoking, high five

Fag hanging from
Acrylic nails,
They go from bar to bar
Bathroom stalls.
I type in the PIN –
Four digits
To deny me.

If, a big if, a massive
Fucking improbable if,
I can get cash
Then I can crash
On the lash
Off the leash
Drunken British
Baring darkened,
Crooked teeth.

I type in a sum
Something small
Hopefully enough.
A pregnant pause –
An aborted cause,
A secret clause
Is you have to wait –
The machine spits out
Pictures of the Queen.

The missus and me
Hit the street
Another bar
Where the rich cunts meet,
I get our drinks;
She finds some seats:
Is this seat free?
Is this seat free?
For me fella and me?

The difference between
Them and us,
The missus and me, is
Those rich gets
In their
Suits and boots
With their expensive
Hair and clothes,
And drugs, and
Plastic tits
Is simple.

Me and my proletarian
Ideals hanging onto
Poetry like it’s a
Nursing mother
Dancing to the low level
Corporate drum is simple.

They are rich and I am not.