Now the suits have closed the doors

Closed the works

Closed half the town

Closed ranks

Whilst tumbleweed blows

Between the ears of those in charge

The suits chase the brown

Wearing grey, blue and black

Not even apologetic

Except it’s not personal

It’s just business

In a place now less frenetic

A place half dead

All that’s left the bookies, the chippy

The pound shop and boozer

Kids fed on pasty and chips

In buggies pushed by girls on phones

Past smoke plumes outside the pub

A line of drinkers lost in thoughts

Blank stares and an awkward kind of shuffle

Whilst cast off Casanovas

Stand in a corner of the park

No room to speak

Or manoeuvre

Now they have played their part

Now discounted, dismissed and diminished

Donation gratefully received

You can see it all happen

On alternate Fridays and Wednesday afternoons

When the buggy pushed results

Are taken to see their father’s mother  

But the suits still complain

Of the ever constant drain

On resources in the budget

After another successful closure

Who benefits

Down on easy street

As long as the balance book

Looks tidy straight and neat