What does it profit a man if he gain a good education
To benefit the nation,
In a subject he comes to loathe?
The wild rose
But he dwelt
Who wore fine clothes.
What good does it profit a man if he considers wealth
A supreme good in and of itself?
To help him cope with his stressful day.
He may pay
For a yacht
But he has got
Where his soul
I can not agree
With those who would level down society
And we are not all of the same wood.
Yet to glorify economics at the expense of all else
Leads to an obsession with the self
And rich young things who sit, in groups, alone
Playing with their telephone
An interesting expression
Is “the world’s oldest profession”.
Many a confession
Has the priest heard.
Mums the word.
He knows the flesh is weak
And will not speak
Of the desire
Burning in peasant and squire,
Is his profession.
Of girls who clatter
On stillettos high,
Giggling about their latest guy.
Pointy heels delight,
And tear apart
A young man’s heart.
Girls once dreamed of mansions in the Cheshire countryside
But time’s tide
Youth is almost gone
And dreams turn to the waking nightmare
Of the needle-strewn stair
In a tower block too high
For you or I
But a mother and a screaming baby live there,
While you and I pretend to care.