The Wintonians

She’s a Wintonian, a proper blue-blood

Sixties-fledgling from a nest in Fulflood

No financial burdens, she reckons she could


As an Oxfam volunteer


He’s a Wintonian, lives close to the station

London Waterloo, his midweek destination

55 minutes from more wealth-creation

At the location

Of his privileged career


She’s a Wintonian and Estate Agent-boss

A fortune made from overselling St. Cross

Though it does little to offset the loss

Of son Josh

To a condition most severe


He’s a Wintonian, with few airs and graces

Plays the markets with other poker-faces

Carefully day-trades on candlestick-traces as

Red braces

Constrain stomach fed on beer



She’s a Wintonian, and please understand

That you need a country pile before she’ll take your hand

To The Brookes shopping centre she never does strand,

But she already plans

In Silverhill, to appear



He’s a Wintonian and he races old Bentleys

Down country lanes near Chalfont St. Rent-free

Takes no prisoners in eager attemptery

As not-so-gently

He engages fourth gear


He’s no Wintonian – this one seeks handouts

That “Big Issue” cry SO makes him stand out

On selling fifty, he’s back to Hampton, South

Lives hand-to-mouth

Till opportunity comes near


 Copyright, Jody Redmires, 2015