Liar. A rusty old hulk lies
off Canvey Island:
its message, Gravesend.
This is the story of the
Ionian Bank-Miracle!
Shareholders gather, the
registrar is a spectacled
philatelist.
Rumblings at Bishopsgate,
hardly a thought
in the ditch:
for derivatives or
foreign
exchange.
All rise at London Bridge
for peace-elbow
minorities, hire advisors,
issue a prospectus and
print it on
lavatory paper.
Smoke emerges
behind
the columned
lady.
An ironed
shirt
pricks
the conscience:
‘we have a bank, gentlemen.’
Depositors whisper,
unable to break out
of Normandy 1944. Then
suddenly parachutists
in St Mary’s Axe,
the famous scouts,
form protest.
Mrs Gray, Islington, steps
forward as c-in-c.
Directors hide
in the pub.
‘Your savings are hardly
the point-
they’ve gone
anyway so
caveat emptor
North London.’
Let us all
celebrate
to-gether
the rise and rise again
of the Ionian
Bank-Saint!
