He wakes; it's six,
A hundred things there are to fix
Juice, coffee and eat a bun,
Then to the subway at the run.
Standing, almost crushed,
Towards the office desk he rushed,
Then up the lift a hundred floors,
Towards his console and his chores.
A dozen emails overnight
Demand some action, not just sight.
In moments, 'phones clarion calls begin
As colleagues in other blocks come in,
His mind his reflexes, tasks perform.
For this is just the daily norm.

Then one enormous bang, one blinding flash
A terrifying, hideous crash
And terror, chaos all around
And he is, oh! So far from ground.
He knows he's trapped, he can't get out,
It will not serve for help to shout.
His mind to those he loves has rushed
He must reach them before he's crushed
Only his wife, his children dear,
Are what he feign would most be near
The daily grind, the ceaseless toil
Is most for them, not just the spoil.

Thank God, the cellnet phone works still
He can reach them and he will
Last quickly spoken words 'I love you' – then all is still.
Some cause, some grudge unknown to him
Has snuffed his life out, at a whim
Some human being, with loves like he
Played God, but sans pity (pitee).

By Guy Huntrods CBE
14 September 2001
Former Advisor to Bank of England
Director of Lloyds Bank plc