Treasure Island

Martin Swords

(9th December Nineteen Fifty / Tiglin, Wicklow, Ireland)

Artificial Paradise

It’s an Artificial Paradise
Here in the Vale Da Plenty

Security keeps the peasants out
Unless there’s bins to empty
And shirts to iron
Beds to change
Floors to sweep on Wednesday

They’ve a Portuguese lady does each week
They think her name’s Miranda
But they’re not sure
They’re always out
At the clubhouse bar veranda

Ferdinando cuts their grass
And trims their Bougainvillaea
If he trimmed for them
In Tunbridge Wells
Neighbours would fill with envillaea

They’ve been out here for six months now
They hear that things are grand
With Richard and Rose
At boarding school
In lonely grey England

Must dash they say we’ve got to play
A four with Bruce and May
A lovely couple
Don’t have kids
But a yacht called Little Ray

If they’d had kids they’d be so tied
It might have cramped their style
So they play all day
With their Little Ray
It’s like their Little Child

Oh its lovely here a paradise
They call it Vale Da Plenty
Without their golf
And sun and fun
Their lives would just be empty

Martin Swords Sept ’08
Vale da Pinta/Gramacho
Lagoa Portugal

Submitted: Saturday, September 20, 2008

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Comments about this poem (Artificial Paradise by Martin Swords )

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  • Duh Huh (6/13/2009 9:53:00 PM)

    A sad but true look into those that care not of anyone but themselves. Very well expressed. Thank you for sharing :) (Report) Reply

  • annie okia (10/2/2008 10:38:00 AM)

    Great poem Martin, I know these people, always complaining that '' One can't get the help these days'' ha ha, very enjoyable, alana (Report) Reply

  • Tj Becker (9/20/2008 5:12:00 AM)

    An awesome poem of the shallow lives of some of the rich. Well written with great rhyme and flow. An excellent write I'm glad I was privileged to read it. (Report) Reply

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