Waitrose is the English supermarket chain for the rich. Clifton is the Bristol suburb where some of them live.
A guy I met in Waitrose asked me over to his place
I think you’ll be impressed, he said, it’s really quite a space.
A cool million plus’s worth of high Clifton style
With a view that on a good day stretches nearly half a mile.
It was a box.
The door was solid steel, the floor was polished glass
It was all I could do to cross the room and not fall on my arse
He poured a glass of wine and settled down in his recliner
Grinning like he’d just been made the emperor of China,
And started banging on about the electronic locks
On his box.
I was feeling slightly ill from so many right angles
When his latest wife walked in packing twenty pounds of bangles
All those mirrors in strange places showed some interesting bits
Of her perfectly hand-crafted clearly artificial tits
And her box.
It had floor to ceiling windows or was that ceiling to floor
I was so disoriented I couldn’t tell any more
The guy was spouting rubbish à propos of nothing much
We’ve really got a lot he said to learn from the Dutch
His wife stretched out beside me and flashed me some panty
Architecturally, he boasted, this place really ups the ante
I felt like a ship drifting slowly onto rocks
In his box.
I was nearing desperation and searching for an out
An appliance started beeping what on earth was that about?
So I claimed to spend my whole life working for the poor
And that the treatment of asylum seekers shocked me to the core…
Within seconds he was on his feet showing me the door
Of his box.