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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