With naïveté and innocence
I approached you one evening.
Your cute flashing words
caught my eye,
and you tempted me
with your charming request:
PLEASE INSERT YOUR CARD.
With such polite, delightful manner,
I could not resist.
I gave you my card as a token
of my affection and said, I love you,
my beautiful NatWest service point.
You asked me my name,
and I typed in my number.
I reckoned I was in.
I could tell by the tone of your
And then you asked me, CASH OR CASH WITH RECEIPT,
and I knew you loved me too!
Oh, how could it be,
my sweet NatWest service point?
They say love has no bounds,
but how could such a pristine
beauty love such a fool,
and how could I love a machine?
So I pressed CASH, said, To hell with the receipt;
let’s live life on the edge!
But then you responded, SORRY, YOU HAVE INSUFFICIENT
FUNDS IN YOUR ACCOUNT…
and I knew it was over!
I should have realised.
Why should the figurehead
of part of a multinational,
conglomerate, capitalist bank
a third-rate, third-year philosophy student,
on for a third at a third-rate polytechnic,
knowing briefly as I do
the processes that
brought about the Third Reich
and the Third World?
I’ve tried to tell them
that I will have money,
that I plan to be a famous poet,
a best-selling novelist,
and perhaps a filthy rich rock star
(depending on how it goes with my bass guitar).
But belief was never their strong point.
I’d try it on with the chick next door,
but I reckon she wouldn’t listen,
and down the road I reckon she wouldn’t say yes,
but I don’t care;
if that so-and-so of a NatWest service point
values money more than me,
she can stick my card where the sun don’t shine,
cos I’m gonna see
if someone will buy me a pint.