The Commonwealth of Failure

Sunglasses, wallet, condom, fags,
A laptop on the train,
A sales rep needs his bonus as
The years go down the drain.

Missed deadlines, long pub lunches, scowls
And rockets from the boss.
In the Commonwealth of Failure
No one gives a toss.

More numbers in the mobile,
More statements in the red,
More women in the hotel bar
To bring back to your bed.

Your jackets go on a little hooks
In the Vauxhalls that you drive:
There's always another meeting
To endure or to survive.

In the Commonwealth of Failure
The lion and the lamb
Come to the slaughter soon or late.
The inbox fills with spam.

K. M. Payne

If you have any comments on this poem, K. M. Payne  would be pleased to hear them.