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by Tom Hubbard

They heard that he was ‘something in the City’
And wore nice suits. The ideal son-in-law.
The thought that he could lord it quite so shitty
Never occurred. Just worship that firm jaw,
The measured tones, the wife both rich and pretty;
He makes his colleagues look and sound so petty,
They’ve surely put the guff into guffaw –
While he’ll be crowned at last by Good Queen Betty.
Yet look, the whole estate’s been sold and bought;
He’ll join the rest in reeking tedium,
With crafted platitudes, forever caught
Between a porn shop and a crematorium.