His earnings were no use now,
A bottle of antiquated Romanée Conti would undoubtedly do,
A premium Gieves & Hawkes ensemble donned,
Jeff Buckely trills of lilac wine as he puts on his GJ Cleverley shoes.
He turns up the dial on his harmony producer,
Fading out the shrilling yawp of the telephone upon the table,
He sits up in his silk sheet bed,
The lights dim to a squint and the Psychotropic tab make him unable.
A pill for each mood now a-swirl in his gut,
He deliberated if that earlier he should have elected the lamb over the pork,
Then peers to the room’s edge to the dark of a crook,
As slippers pulsate and instigate to a mellow sway and begin to curiously talk.
“What you do there?” They spoke with pry.
He enlightened the foot snugs that he wished to die,
That he hated a life as obtuse of this,
Now once able and mind half disabled he would take a knife,
To his wrists.
A razor flavours blood of the open arm,
As authoritative calls bellow and boom behind the door of his sweet,
They would never find the cash in the Caymans,
As there was none; just good wine, fast cars, his suits, and the fine shoes on his feet.
The slippers float and thus speak on:
“You are a fool to yourself you have done it all wrong, they have notably found the note”.
“There is little time left you should hurry now,”
“Take one last sip of the wine and let the razor meet your throat.”
The door bucks with each thump,
Through the yells and demands it begins to give as it creaks,
He lays a gasp in his ruby and blood,
He is now a fade and almost absent and the slippers are asleep.
They will salvage him from his discharge,
This man of hate for life, life of lies, thief of the poor and unto his soul,
A man who obstinately wanted more,
Until more was a bore and nothing no longer more fed the avid hole
