On The Pavement Lies

The streets are paved with gold,
so runs the old cliché.
The bankers sit in affluence
counting up their pay.
Bright red buses filled to burst
with workers on their way:
smiling people in the race,
and gaining every day.

The cliché's split and bent,
with the city all but spent;
Ii the ashes children play.

The streets aren't paved with gold
they're worn and cracked and cold;
there is nothing more to say.