Wednesday, February 18, 2015

The Ballad of Daytime TV

Former polis, all sweaty 
In Vauxhalls and Fords
Fourth cousins twice removed
Answering doors
Warned by researchers
To look sorry and shocked
For dead folk unheard of
Until the hearse-chaser’s knock
An inheritance? How much? Where do I sign?

And I watch. And I wish that the money was mine.

So I could roam car boot sales
Sifting through trash
Searching for treasures
To flog at auction for cash
I know my Royal Doulton, 
My Wemyss Ware and Delft
My Fabergé and Wedgewood
But there’s so little left
In charity shops 
In skips or in attics
Everybody’s an expert 
Everybody’s an addict
Of Bargain Hunt, Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is

And then there’s the question of investing in houses.

Who are these people
With so much money to spend?
Millions, hundred of thousands
Do banks really lend
To tattooed guys in pull-ups 
With half-shaven heads
Who buy sad repossessions 
Or the homes of the dead?
Tart them up, sell them on
Or just rent them out
It’s all about profit
Not a scintilla of doubt
Ever appears 
On a presenter’s face
As they Escape To The Country
To avoid the disgrace
Of ever being reduced 
To Price Drop TV
The Jewellery Channel
Or - worse - QVC
Botoxed and hair-woven, held in telly detention

Then released to host raffles at double glazing conventions

Copyright Tom Morton 2015. All rights reserved

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