We, the little bourgeois, bathing in political nothingness
Can’t complain much. We own our houses and our pensions
That keep tinselling in our purse like pure richness,
Helping us buy our Mediterranean diet grocery collections
And we travel free with senior passes to any train stations.
Our only worry is that our left foot is in the grave
And our right foot is painful with arthritis.
Until the day we forget what we crave,
Nothing that cannot be fixed — unlike moralitis —
That social disease of moral paralysis.
Aspirin, Prunelax, Panadol and other wonder pills
That help us go through the enjoyable days,
That we gleefully interrupt with a siesta for an afternoon daze.
We can’t even resent our kids, grandkids and their brats
Who want what we’ve got now. Now.