The finance situation

So another cloud gathers, this time from the mainland 

And nobody is quite sure, in acts to follow, "what of the crops"  
Why we should hold, worrying hands around camp fire 

It is from the dialect of currency used, and ours is different 

We chose to maintain that of our forefathers, and their father's fathers 

While still holding communal hands, with the neighbours "we only shared seeds" 

So why have us worry, and throw more coal on heart burns  

It is their debt, not ours, with bailiffs knock on their doors, not ours 

It is their troubles, not ours, "it is their land that becomes infertile" 


It is their backyards, that empty graves are dug

With nameless tombstones and chisel held by the inscriber

He stands ready, he has just taken on, two more helping hands 

And one more is stood waiting, either that or the dole 
There are no jobs these days, every job is one to want
So he prays for his service to be required, administrating   

The sea is with high-current walls 
It separates us, our land,  from their misfortunes  

So why have me worry 

No one talks, of the bankers these day 

No one says word, about them no more 

It is as if  t' dog house was only built, to serve their purpose 


And they have all been locked in for the winter 
This to silence their extravagant taste 
And the barks they wallow of in, in riches, in flash 

But now this time and again, their names crop up 

It is all to do with eggs in baskets 

Prudence and feasibility became, foreign words 

And  for that, the bankers vault seats empty 

They gave all away on high return, with risk unaccounted for 
To the countries, of frozen fields, who had but not much to pay back with 


Thus now, another cloud gathers, and the draught nears our lands 

This time from t' main land, not across t' pond like before

And we are to be caught in this storm, the winds hints, the oracle tells  

What do you know, I see mass empty graves appearing 

Manifesting in our backyards, each day a new one is added 

With warning signs they give, about the storm that cometh   


I pray it passes soon, or escapes as bulk 
Before our harvest days, with sacks ready to carry a load  
This seasons harvest can not, be left to rot in fields