Everything I touch transfers the golden curse.
The sweet allure of its sticky clutches
And now there is no exorcism, no cleansing waters, no spray
To expunge the calamity today.
Now everywhere the tackiness is felt
Because A full tin of Lyle’s Golden Syrup
Was not wearing a seat belt.
It tumbled, lost its lid
and languidly made its escape.
And now I simply can’t get rid
Of this all-pervading stickiness
Everything sticks; it’s all too much
This golden curse, this Midas touch.
Steve Blakesley © May 2019
Taid of Life 