Everyday to work on the tube he commutes,
Travelling the old familiar city routes.
Pretending to study his morning Financial Times
Furtively reading a poetry book hidden inside.
Then when he reaches his hedge fund firm,
His thoughts from poetry are forced to turn.
As he sits at his desk, his blood runs cold,
He can feel money clawing at his soul.
He begins to manoeuvre his clients cash,
Imagining instead ink on paper splash.
As he analyses charts of stocks and shares,
Only he knows its rhyme for which he really cares.
His old school teachers are the ones he blames,
They always said exactly the same.
“Writing poetry won’t earn you a living,
Stocks and shares are where you’ll make a killing.”
So his hedge fund he daily trims,
Dreaming of being able to make words spin.
Or writing rhymes applauded by all,
Instead of being a slave to Mammon’s call.
Everyday back home on the tube he commutes,
Travelling the old familiar rural routes.
Staring at his crumpled Financial Times
Daring himself to take out the poetry book inside.