How to get on it,
How to get off it;
Too many on it,
What about the profit.
The pension did shine,
With bread and with wine;
A pill's all it cost,
With the thought of the loss.
I put it all down,
In verse and in rhyme;
No need to rehearse,
All in good time.
The problem was paid,
By pen and in pain;
As the wind changed direction,
All was in vain.
This ink and the price,
Was like melt in the ice;
As the sun beamed down,
Each pen wrote the town.
So now the meaning to this,
Is if you're not well you are his;
And the pension is paid,
To these sick, tired and made.
Signed,
Grade and Waylaid
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