Long ago, it was the wife who would push him

-‘These are our sort of people,’ she would say-

To take that job, which he couldn’t manage

And came home each evening utterly spent.

Oh, the ordeal of dinners with the boss

And Councillor Twitface for Sunday tea,

When he would have preferred to mooch around

And watch the football or listen to jazz.

 

That certain kind of snobbery has gone,

Maybe, as old suburbia has waned;

Now megabucks and techie talk prevail

And barbecues replace the awkwardness

Of whispered meals. The old aristocrats

Cling on, heading home for the dinner bell.