The death of capitalism
is like a PIPS implant gone wrong.
You're not really left
with much in your hands.
Just the ring
of hollow promises, long time gone.
And the smell of greedy money
drifting lost in arid desert sands.

Lets all dance a last tango
in a true uninhibited Latino style.
Lets all take our watches off
and forget about the clock for a while.
And sit on a timeless beach
and drink to the memory of Peter Pan.
Keeping one ear permanently cocked
for the tickety-tock of the crocodile.

There is no white knight, not this time,
no cavalry charge, no baton round.
And the screams of the big-time losers
are like children.
Lost in the department store
amongst the crowds.
Searching for an itinerant mother
in the trash of the lost and found.

What chance have we really got?
With a prime minister who looks
like him and Tin-Tin were separated at birth.
And the athletes who press stud to turf
rake in more than they are feally worth.
While in a hut out on the Serengeti
a starving mother dies
shortly after giving birth.

Celebrity Big Brother
is symptomatic of society today.
Press fast forward,
smile at the omnipresent camera.
The agent deals with the contract
so get out there and play.
She's so happy counting money
but the taxman's going to hammer her.

There was no weeping at the bedside
as capitalism quietly slipped away.
Just sighs of unreserved relief
and an impromptu toast to the new day.
And a nod of mutual agreement
that it was probably better this way.
Lets all promise not to resurrect money,
come what may.