Great Expectations

The aristocracy,
of the Brit,
If anyone can say it,
This one can,
It's a myth, a fable,
a painful tale,

It's China cup,
Saucer,Tea leaves and hot water,
One lump or two,
Left in a cup to stew,

It's the four sets,
of knives and forks,
The three sets of spoons,
and the servants present,
With the food in the room,

Those days are gone,
When gents turned up for show,
All dressed up,
with a dickey bow,
And their tailor made tuxedo,
Just for the nights entertainment,
They had more money,
Than brains,
intelligence,

Now the British aristocracy,
are more interested,
In flashing their cash,
Partying at the night clubs,
The paparazzi flash,

Take a pic,
"Quick there's one,
they've just been sick,"
Heroin, cocaine, meow,
drugs, drink,
Pushing them selves,
further to the brink,

None of them realize,
None of them think,
One more pill,
One more drink,
One step away,
from the mortuary sink,

The girls turn tricks,
just to get that next fix,
Walking,
stumbling,
Trip,
Tell,
Ever closer,
To the doorway to hell,
The tormented mind,
In an empty shell,

Depression sets in,
As they lose control,
falling deeper in to the hole,
The clinics safe haven,
try to save their soul,

Withdrawals imminent,
Suicide watch,
they've lost everything,
lost the lot,
doesn't take much more,
before they lose the plot,

They run to escape,
Take a new drug,
and end up a date rape,
Panic sets in but it's to late,
In the hotel they awoke,
Turn over in bed,
and it's another bloke,
Takes a bath,
in the hotel room,
Takes a razor,
as it's just turned noon,
The cleaner steps in,
to tidy the room,

The expression on her face,
As she sees his face,
eyes closed and skin pale,
like a full moon at night,
His face is cold,
his pulse is gone,
no one to see him,
as he moves on. 




Copyright © 2011 John Bevan