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!” | 
