On Radio 4 this morning, plastic fivers…

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So, money doesn’t grow on trees no more

For some of us it never really did

The rich grow ever richer, and the poor

Still grovel for a poxy flippin’ quid

The launderers shall rub their hands with glee

‘Tis easy now to wipe clean, and to wash

The dirty money in the treasury

The grime of crime from shiny plastic dosh

Old money will still glint of ancient gold

New money will still boast itself and flash

And diamonds shine, and lead be dark and cold

As ever was, the alchemy of cash

The chemistry of lucre is not strange

The rich stay rich, and for the poor, no change

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© Gail Foster 13^th September 2016