Johnny Rich

Life’s a bitch for Johnny Rich,
it’s time to walk the plank.
The working class, that kissed his arse,
are propping up the bank.
It’s nothing new, he knew he flew,
Much higher than he should
But they all said, ‘Hey thrift is dead!’
and told him that he could.

He’d sneer, when asked to have a beer,
for wine was more his thing.
He looked a flute, in that pink suit
and blinding us with bling…
but we’d all state, that he looked great
and he’d pay for our Ale.
He’d talk of blogs and eating frogs,
which made a few lads quail.

And as his world, became unfurled,
the winds that filled his sails,
were violent storms, that soon transformed
his laughter into wails.
But like Canute, he tried to mute
the nature of the flood.
He stood aloof and waterproof,
while drowning in cold blood.

They took his house, he lost his spouse,
for they went hand in hand.
His fancy cars and sushi bars,
lay stranded on the Strand.
A friend in need’s no friend indeed,
unless his need’s to spend.
Now that may seem a tad extreme,
and hard to comprehend.

And certainly, for you and me,
it’s cynical and trite
but poor folk dance and find romance,
where muck is known as, shite!
He speculates, accumulates;
he tried to tell us how,
the creation of inflation,
wasn’t his to disavow.

Now Johnny Rich, claims life’s a bitch,
destroying his poor soul
He moans and groans, in posh-boy tones,
each Wednesday ‘down the dole’.
His upper crust has turned to dust,
his Beemer’s repossessed.
Now he’s bereft, that all that’s left’s
his Calvin Klein string vest.

Reality can sometimes be
a bitter pill to take.
You ‘does the crime’, you ‘does the time’
and you can cry mistake…
but you will learn, that what you earn,
with blood and sweat and tears,
though maybe spare, may still be there,
in so-called ‘Golden Years’.

Chris Birrane © 2012