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When the streets you once thought paved with gold,
Turn out bedecked with yellowing mould,
When the glimmer of light on horizon seen,
Is the dying ember from where your house had once been,
When the paddle you’d clung to in life’s turbulent creek,
Spears your Kayak and springs a leak,
When the straw you had clutched with such fervent belief,
Fails to supply the necessary relief,
When the grass so lush in your neighbour’s garden,
Now appears to parch and harden,
When the silver lining in cloud on high,
Rains down slivers that slice your eye,
When all you wish to do is blub,
Well, that’s the time to hit the pub.
And I’ll be there, friend, just for you.
But my wallet won’t, so the drinks are on you.
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