Chance Would Be A Fine Thing
Sometimes it’s not so subtle. A superior
former member of a wrongly toppled clan
craves indulgence in an e-mail from Nigeria.
Without you, he’ll be a wholly broken man.
If you’ll only lend him your esteemed good favour,
and your bank account to launder what he’s owed,
there’ll be moolah in its millions to savour,
and thousands for you, too, you lucky toad.
Or perhaps, your cap dependent on your pension,
you’ll find you’ve won a Spanish bingo game;
since greed’s the real mother of invention,
you’ll send a cheque to file your certain claim.
And then there is the builder, who will strip off
your roof; the turfer with his golden trowel,
who’ll gild your garden. Hip, hooray. The rip-off
merchants prowl about. Oho, ’tis foul.