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 down on bracken, heather that's burned.
Shod in fake leather, it falls off his feet,
drinking warm beer in a pub with no 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,
Takes 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 ones with fuck all stay under the sod.