Man with gold milk, thick cream on top,
Lies down in clover, pick of the crop.
Silk socks encased in the finest of suede
Drinking campari with real lemonade.
Man with the sour, clotted and turned
Lies on bracken and heather that's burned,
Shod in fake leather – it falls off his feet
Drinking warm bitter in a pub without heat.
Man in his mansion – size of a castle
Rich velvet hangings and curtains with tassles,
Monocled, powdered, dryer than gin,
Drinks in the mountain top's pure oxygen.
Man in a bedsit, gas ring and meter,
Huddling over a paraffin heater
National Health glasses, skin like a rhino,
Breathing in fumes, obscuring the lino.
Man wearing Rolex, platinum chain
Eats spoonfuls of caviar washed down with champagne.
Perusing Picasso, Renoir and Dali,
Taking breaks in Jamaica, Monte or Bali
Man with a digital hung off his wrist
Eating steak pudding, gravy and chips
Flicking through Mayfair, Rustler and Knave
Paddling at Skegness, counting the waves.
What of their futures, now they've drawn their last breath?
Doesn't it matter when the living are dead
The Grim Reaper beckons the rich up to God
The one with fuck all stays under the sod.
After Laycock and The Two of Us by Simon Armitage.