Money doesn't stink, it's a lack of money:
stinks of pea soup, herring, sausage,
depression as the days draw in.
The letter-slot spits bills on the floor.
Morning dawns with weariness
and the loom of work.
The only adventures come in dreams:
the heroic trails peter out
as dawn points.
The newspaper's obese
and half of it's horror
It's a bloodstained packet of pictures
of Santa Claus.
Hold it carefully
or a stack of guns might clatter onto the floor.