Our town was well ordered, we knew where we stood

We knew what was bad, and were told what was good

The Baddies wore black, and we Goodies wore white

Never a doubt as to who’d win the fight

 

The Clergy were pristine; whilst Doctors were Gods!

Our Bobbies were BOBBIES, not ‘FiveO’ or ‘plod’

Whilst bosses in banks saw themselves as elite,

(Not deigning to deal with the man in the street)

Pinstriped and bowlered, with briefcase and brolly.

Guardians of prominent customer’s lolly.

Managers dodged me, however I tried,                     

But authorised tellers, those chaps qualified,            

Might suggest an account, or special new deal,         

If they thought an investment like theirs might appeal.         

I could walk to my branch, to add or withdraw, 

No-one would ask “where’s it from?”, “what’s it for?”

And nobody needed to ask who I was

Nobody needed to ask me because

A regular customer, local like me,

Had banked there for years, so no need for i.d.

 

But time has passed by and the banks have deserted,

Uprooting their staff, with their buildings converted

For out of town traders who’ll sell this and that;

And charity shops with their second-hand tat.

There’s often a bank that’s left standing empty

A natural dump for all manner of debris,

And banks won’t acknowledge the damage they’ve done

With branches on High Streets a while ago gone,

Along with the tinker; the tailor; the baker,

There’s little remains for the town’s undertaker,

Nothing to do but drive home the nails

In the town’s coffin lid as it finally fails.

 

My funds are secure, or so the banks say,

Moved through the ether, far better that way,

Or that’s what I’m told by the nerds in the know

Do I believe the banks? Not really, no.

 

And my local-based teller? What now of this feller?

Put out to grass. Redundant en masse.