My Coutts account is fat with
years of my plied earnings – I
get invited to things – only in
my best suit – greeted by stiff
bankers & event staff [money
is my route to endless evil] &
they pour me fine wines – Sir –
from our cellar – they tell me
[I’ll imbibe sweetness – not a
bitter year] – They assure me –
my cash is happy – stacked in
their safe – below higher piles
[also stashed by oofy people]
I am equally valued – says my
blandish low-value manager] –
I shall draw it down & escape