[Nigel Mace]

For the comp. its called New Shoes - but I'll keep it as SALE TIME.

NEW SHOES

“What am I bid?” the PM huckster cries,
as off-shore funds flit briefly ’cross the room,
from phantom figures flown from non-dom skies
to clutch at power, like some sweaty groom.
Here dressed-down wealth eschews black ties, champagne
and ball-gown glitz, as if the smart set’s suits
were camouflage enough to mask the pain,
lashings of cash exact from those, whose boots
these greedy bidders are not fit to loose.
And well-washed dosh, ’neath table tops, ashamed,
just like some stockinged toe, without excuse,
seeks members insufficiently defamed.
One scooped a May day, buying soles in town;
new shoes or old, it’s heels that grind us down.