Jumping nerves and tingling senses,
Uncontrollable thoughts within restricted fences,
Shaking palms and prickly toes,
Troubling times and shameful woes.

A stranger quick to lend a hand,
Like a rope or ladder in quick sand,
A sudden weight in a heavy sack,
You carry on your shoulders as you try to pay back.

Days under the hot sun with helmets and axes,
Logging the days to try to pay your taxes,
A soft whistle blown to end the day,
You sit in the corner and quietly pray.

A final deposit of one-eighty-seven,
A rushed cheque dated March 11,
A sigh of relief and maybe more,
The fulfilled hopes of no longer being poor.