The Cottage

The man he sits in his office of a major high street bank
He dreams of a different life as he works with no thanks
Slave driven, full of back-biting and bully tactics
Should be used to it now, but he’s on automatic

He feels sick sometimes as he goes in to do his job
A grown man in his forties, he breaks into a sob
For the pressure is too much, he has targets to reach
If he doesn’t then he’ll be replaced, someone else to teach

He has a mortgage to pay in his little home
It’s not much but he’s happy there alone
Although it’s in his home town, pressure still exists
He wonders if he moved away would he truly be missed?

For so many years he has tried to do the right thing
But what real happiness has he achieved, what does it bring?
He’s not selfish, nasty or cruel
So why does he feel he’s always set for a fall?

The perfect life for him would be in a thatched cottage
In the Scottish Highlands looking out to mountains, freed from his cage
Real food cooking in an Aga, the smells wafting high
An eagle flies overhead, at one with the sky

He would have chicken and sheep in his little abode
Where he could be himself, where his cheeks would glow
Where the mountains would rise, snow at their tops
Miles away from any city, just a local shop