The day the money
Left us feeling so cold,
Stuck on the sofa,
Everything sold.

Eating the same meal
For days on end;
Hoping that the money
Would return again.

The end of the month
Brings something, like a smile,
And the money drips back
If only for a while.

The week is now dead
And the change is all gone
And the next three weeks
Will feel three years long.

In cycles of poorness,
We lie to ourselves;
Whiskey wet wishing
We were somewhere else.


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