Why is it when you’re down and out, you’re also out of luck? Success they say is easy, “you’ll find it in a book.” I waded through a finance book, and on the middle page; Invest like me and you’ll get rich, no matter what your age. I searched online, to divine, a golden block of stock; A solid name, my company, was called the Northern Rock. I studied form, to calculate, a fortune I could make; But all too soon a news report showed profits were a fake. It said the Rock was short of cash, and begging cap in hand. Their savers are withdrawing, oh; I think I’ll buy some land. Now on my land I’ll need a cow, to eat grass and produce. The cow I bought was guaranteed, to give a lot of juice. The local vet inspected her, she came from way down South; He said, “she has a very blue tongue, and also foot and mouth.” Now with no cow, I’ll make some hay, and sell it down the road; The first steep hill, the tractor stalled, the trailer shed its load. I feel so low, I need a sleep, to bolster up my pride. I dream I’m in the country, just going for a ride. The transport was a horse and cart, and from it I espied, With flaxen locks, a comely maid; thinks I, she’ll be my bride. Sworn love ‘till death, we rode along, until a brewing storm, With lightning crashing all around, a fearful sight that morn. The horse took off, without the cart, now diverged from its course; It overturned, and in a bush, my arse had found the gorse. In dreadful pain I sat upright, and looked round for my bride; An ancient hag stood over me, “you can’t sleep here,” she cried. By now you’ve got the picture; I haven’t had much luck. When someone says, “go west young man,” I’ll send some other schmuck. Martin John King is a retiree living in Somerset, England.