Flirting hap-hazards to mist
In innocent sunlight; don’t
Specify brewing clouds.
Here they pin you.
Drivel me the shooting match,
I’ll ignore it. A hope chest
Is no laughing matter
To account for these footings.
You’re a bubble-ish posturemaster.
Time to backbone your sanity.
Soon years will burst – inexplicable.
Leading the dance of the whole High Street
He clanged before boutiques,
A breather at tradeless windows.
We’ve nattered about framing debts,
On silted Manager’s lips,
Vow – we’re no great shakes as a financial institution,
Emphatic while speaking to pin-money designs.
Trust – an afterthought
In the blear of a lying mirror.
Their trump card is to cashier
We’ll weed swag-debt…
Lend yourself to lion’s share stashes
The population nip is red.
Flunked straw bosses, disregard all trust.
At vanishing point the axe nose-dives.
Christopher Barnes' work has appeared numerous times in Offcourse.