When walking around, an echo’s made,
as certain things, have not been paid,
a tradesman’s ghost, is in the window,
whilst Whitehall plays, it’s game of bingo,
tummies rumble, for some Pizza Hut,
but alas, their dough is in a rut,
like Roman Empire, it could fall down,
as a fast Italian, leaves the town,
a light bulb blows, in house and mind,
in praying that Nipper, is so kind,
to make a kennel, inside Wilko’s place,
so things can stay, within their case,
big macs remain, but lamps are gone,
from dear Julien, the Welsh Dragon,
hence say goodbye, to a Macdonald chair,
where in the ether, see the shares,
all good things, must come to an end,
but only if the choice, does not offend,
for those who hold, the bank accounts,
attend to robots, and ignore the shouts,
a great imploration, is uttered now,
to the suits who serve, both man and Crown,
those claimed expenses, are your mess,
you’ve got backdated payments, to the NHS,
such custodians of the world, are they,
living useful hypocrisies, is their way,
both givers and takers, of any hope,
for they can’t clean, if there is no soap,
what a time to live in, where all’s in bits,
the fields are covered, by empty units,
a symbol, of such a mortal strife,
the greed and trials, of human life.