Working, not in a coalmine, but in tax
Is singularly fine, but I ain't rich.
In the sixties you earned big bucks. It lacks
That now; the chicks don't look twice, as I pitch
My tent in Salford, with barely a stitch
To wear. Selfridges rarely see me there,
Coz I'm your perfect date, vile scruffy witch,
A dearth upon my plate of tasty fare.
Career advancement? I ain't got a prayer,
The barriers are meant to stop my tracks,
Or maybe it's just me, I'll never reach
The fabled heights, not clever, no real flair.
But it's okay, I could do worse: perhaps
Working in a coalmine, digging a ditch.
Mon 31 Mar 2008
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