'Pie in the Sky' (I.P.)
There’s some might say we had it made...
having gone from rags to riches;
no more to scrimp and save, my dear,
as we dine from golden dishes.
And yet it seems I’ve lost that spark –
that twinkle lit my eyes...
my hair has gone from brown to grey,
and my forehead, creased and lined.
I played the stock exchange with skill,
and bought and sold with care,
only now I know the price I paid
to become a millionaire.
We kid ourselves we feel at home,
in these dazzling, marbled halls
with chandeliers, and tennis courts
and Rembrandts on the walls...
that we really need that helipad,
and the yacht in St. Tropez,
plus an island off the coast of Spain
we snapped up yesterday...
That ‘trainer’ guy you hired last month –
spend hours with down the gym;
will money buy you back again,
and stop you seeing him?
Before you speak, just think about
those ‘glory days’ – were ours,
when we gazed at stars from attic rooms,
built our castles in the clouds...
when Sinatra was the soundtrack
to our whirlwind love affair;
all that mattered was tomorrow...
and the other being there.