Bearing Up

The Eighties were great,

Forging money all week;

Swilling Krug by the magnum

On wild city nights.

Where has it all gone, you ask,

As you gaze at your estate?

In the bath at noon,

Feeling my weight:

Time brings on questions

The butler can’t help.

He claims ignorance, like the masses,

Staring down with the drinks;

Surveying my splendour

With no hint of reproach.

Things aren’t so bad,

Though the poor still complain,

Crying at the gates.

You can hear them at night,

If the peacocks let up.