Pockets are empty

The well has run dry

Running in circles

Just lay down and cry.

No food on the table

No wood on the fire

No chance of improvement

Situation dire.

But wait!

People sobbing in the street

Not enough money; ends to meet

This is Twenty Zero Nine

Not Nineteen Forty Six

Back then they made do with just enough food

So stop ya snivelling…pricks!

Get up off your arses

And take the bus to town

The pennies you save on petrol

Will turn around your frown.

It’s not just you that’s in this mess

But do you see me crying?

Roll up your sleeves and do something

I can’t stand people whining.

I still wake up in the morning

And smile with the new dawn

I can look at my reflection

Not a trace of being forlorn.

My gran grew up in London

In a time known as the blitz

No money, no food, no shoes on her feet

And by the end she had no tits!

Not once did I ever hear her curse

About how hard her life had been

I doubt I could live through

Half of what she’d seen.

My gran is a long time dead now

I keep remembering sayings of hers

Her favourite was always this one

“Smile, it could be worse!”