The Scrooge Years

Bob Cratchit put in for a pay rise today.
I’m wise to his ways – top hat in hand,
the reverential mutter soon hardens,
eyes boggle when I assure him we’re
all in this together. You might claim
he’s deserving poor because he works.
Well I work but I can’t afford a subscription
to Punch. What of my six kids? he pleads.
Bob, I tell him, and I mean this kindly,
there are sponges, sheathes, restraint.
And Tiny Tim? We had to go there.
Tiny, a world-class invalid and faker,
gets free doctoring from Cromwell House,
though he’s always out on that Penny-
farthing, screaming and causing trouble.
When you add in the Camden almshouse,
I bet they’re pocketing more than I am.