you may,
tumble down stairs
whistling traditional songs
your dreams
may not be made of gold

from the improbable cliff
eating lunch,
getting drunk,
on the heady delights of being liked

society is rotten to the core
but working class pick the fruit
and the middle class listen to the ‘mummy juice’ pour

once i did,
when childhood less easily hid
before it climbed into the adult shaped box
and closed the lid

you know,
this life thing,
it is difficult,
right?