'Tis approaching the season of seasonal cheer
of cheap Spanish wine and sell by date beer.
Or perhaps a small gift, some interest hard won,
for the deals which I'm told have been most bravely done.

But Oh! What is this, this dark chorus I hear,
a soft whisper that catches my highly tuned ear.
'Tis the reason i'm give why my luck has run dry
as he gazes forlorn with a tear in his eye.

"An unfortunate year, but please let me explain
why my labours have shown such a spiritless gain.
That biscuits with chocolate still remain far away,
just a dried up digestive I can offer today.
But bear with me sir, be not faint of heart
for I swear I'll get back every cent of your part,
and come your retirement just give me a bell,
then from Spain where I lurk I shall say, 'go to hell.'
For your portion I've used to construct me a pool,
where I swim every day you poor innocent fool.
And the interest served up will be mine evermore,
whilst you my dear friend will remain ever poor."

And thus it seems writ, as I've found in the past,
that their share cometh first, whilst mine cometh last.
but fear not fellow punters for one day I shall win,
I'll uncover their secrets, including their PIN.

Then the accounts where my loot is illegally stashed
will be secretly plundered and sweetly encashed.
And the howl of outrage you may just faintly hear,
will be music indeed to this highly tuned ear.