I ran away from the bank.

It’s not about numbers,
just how well you can do the maths.
Like, it’s not about time,
just when will the hour glass waistline stop,
drop dress onto floor,
relax you of responsibility,
of all of your more,
inner sanctum turned shopping mall,
‘here’s what I buy when I’m tired of running,
so, tell me how you’re doing?’.

This is what I said when the debt was confirmed.
It was scripted below some sympathy in a red biro pen,
no matter where we went it would follow us around,
from Drachma back to Yen.
No matter where we would go it’d be there
bible-esque and diary bound,
the lost and sound hunting us down.

Nothing’s ever good enough now we’re in a rush,
gotta wake up even earlier if we want to attempt to keep up,
meaning every after-dessert aperitif from now on is our milk for the morning.
Call the valet!
Fetch the keys!
Let’s stare at one and other from across the Sands,
make grand plans inside these hollowed accounts,
conjure up second-hand amounts of plans to nowhere feasible
with twenty-six quid wands from a tour we did want to go on.
To bed a lady like Sinatra would kiss them would be enough for me.
Now you, what would you do with free?