Your whole world carried in worn trouser pockets,
from café to café you spend small change,
on cup after cup, after cup,
of luke warm tea.

Your cupboards are bare, kettle barely warm,
you shiver at night between nylon sheets,
you sit naked,
in your dimly lit room.

And your wishing for pennies from Heaven,
to fall down at your feet.
From silver clouds and on to the street.
The streets that you were told, were paved with solid gold.

Quietly you walk with a permanent smile,
while people are sniggering behind your back,
while people laugh,
behind your back.

You find a box with pennies in Gods house,
the world of polished oak.
You rush out,
and proudly you shout.

Pennies from Heaven, you shout.

© Edward ian Armchair 2002