My sleeping is only subliminal;
I wake on my twenty-first wink.
I can't face the average criminal
Without plenty of coffee to drink.
The crime rare is probably soaring,
And the innocent banged up in error -
No wife who will tell me 'Stop snoring'.
My night-times are nothing but terror.
The countryside briefs have it easy:
They can look out and add up the sheep.
The London air makes me feel queasy,
And the traffic prevents any sleep.
I'm losing my grip on my chief case;
My client gives surly replies.
There may be some weight in my briefcase –
But for heavier bags, see my eyes.
Suspects I coach think I'm dozy,
But the truth is, I'm going through hell,
While they dream of freedom, all cosy,
Bunked up in a silent old cell.
In fact, I would really enjoy a
Spell behind bars, do some time.
I'm 55, clapped-out, a lawyer,
And I'm thinking of turning to crime.