I've been thinking about money a lot
and how one might get more of it.
I'm in the desert and sand is all I've got.
In fact, I've quite a healthy store of it.
They say the deserts once were seas.
Tell it to the Marines or the trees.

I was reading about this guy who spent
twenty grand on his "widow's funeral"
(sic.) and, in any case, he was bent.
He used to get his punters from Pall Mall.
It was in the Guardian, which I read now.
I'll call you from the B-M. Ciao.

In Riga, apparently, it's quite okay
to wander about looking for a quickie.
Twenty quid and you've got yourself a lay.
The girls are good. They never take the mickey.
A friend of mine told me and I said, "What?!"
I've been thinking about it quite a lot.

But on weekends when I was only a kid,
my Mum and Dad would take me down the shops,
buy me a toy perhaps and then I hid
in my favourite tree or played a game of cops.
Now I'm a man, what ever I may wish.
Deserts are deserts and fish is fish.

Trivial Pursuit on Saturday evenings.
I always lose. I haven't the retention.
Meanwhile in a nearby flat, someone sings.
In another, an old poisson counts the pension.
There's people all around. I'm only one.
Everything under the sun is under the sun.