(With a nod to Michael Rosen's poem, Chocolate Cake)
I love money.
I loved it as a boy
and now I love it even more.
Sometimes we used to have it
all spread out on the table
and I would sort it
and stack it.
And dad would say,
"keep the coppers away from the silver"
and laugh at his private joke.
We'd count it all,
bag it
and weigh it.
And then dad would give me a little for myself:
2 shillings, 8 thrupenny bits.
I'd stack them,
and count them again.
I'd put 3 aside for my tin
and count out 5 for school.
I'd take one thrupenny bit to school each day
and at morning break I'd take my thrupenny bit
and wait in the queue at the tuck shop.
But some days,
when standing in the queue
with my thrupenny bit in my hand,
I'd think again and wrap it up in my handkerchief
and I'd push it to the bottom of my grey trouser pocket
for my secret box in my wardrobe.
-
-
Anyway,
once, when dad was sick
he asked me to do the count
- alone.
To spread it on the table,
sort it,
stack it,
keep the coppers away from the silver,
count it
and weigh it.
And then take my share,
2 shillings, 8 thrupenny bits.
I sat in the kitchen
in the silence,
looking down at the spread before me,
full of fear and pride.
I sorted
and I sorted again.
I stacked
and rearrange the stacks.
I saw with a smile
that I had kept the coppers away from the silver.
I counted
and counted again
And for the sheer pleasure of it,
I counted again.
Satisfied,
I took my share
3 shillings, 12 thrupenny bits.
4 bits for my secret box,
3 bits for my tin
and 5 put aside for the week's tuck money.
I love money.
I loved it as a boy
and now sitting in my kitchen
with my red box here in SW1,
full of fear and pride,
I love it even more.
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 12:00 PM UTC
(With a nod to Michael Rosen's poem, Chocolate Cake)
I love money.
I loved it as a boy
and now I love it even more.
Sometimes we used to have it
all spread out on the table
and I would sort it
and stack it.
And dad would say,
"keep the coppers away from the silver"
and laugh at his private joke.
We'd count it all,
bag it
and weigh it.
And then dad would give me a little for myself:
2 shillings, 8 thrupenny bits.
I'd stack them,
and count them again.
I'd put 3 aside for my tin
and count out 5 for school.
I'd take one thrupenny bit to school each day
and at morning break I'd take my thrupenny bit
and wait in the queue at the tuck shop.
But some days,
when standing in the queue
with my thrupenny bit in my hand,
I'd think again and wrap it up in my handkerchief
and I'd push it to the bottom of my grey trouser pocket
for my secret box in my wardrobe.
-
-
Anyway,
once, when dad was sick
he asked me to do the count
- alone.
To spread it on the table,
sort it,
stack it,
keep the coppers away from the silver,
count it
and weigh it.
And then take my share,
2 shillings, 8 thrupenny bits.
I sat in the kitchen
in the silence,
looking down at the spread before me,
full of fear and pride.
I sorted
and I sorted again.
I stacked
and rearrange the stacks.
I saw with a smile
that I had kept the coppers away from the silver.
I counted
and counted again
And for the sheer pleasure of it,
I counted again.
Satisfied,
I took my share
3 shillings, 12 thrupenny bits.
4 bits for my secret box,
3 bits for my tin
and 5 put aside for the week's tuck money.
I love money.
I loved it as a boy
and now sitting in my kitchen
with my red box here in SW1,
full of fear and pride,
I love it even more.
I needed to write a poem about an object or collection for a local event. I chose money as the ultimate object of our love.
