Miranda Wainright eyes agog
Couldn't comprehend the scene
A precious paper avalanche
Spewed from a cash machine
She looked about her calling help
No one heard and no one came
She slowly filled two carrier bags
A self-imposing numbers game
Both bags crammed and pockets full
She hurried home to think
By sorting neatly counted piles
In the kitchen by the sink
Not really sure what should be done
Her heart was pounding hard
She'd never had a bank account
Nor ever used a credit card
Her possessions sparsely minimal
Few friends and no relations
A wardrobe hung with second hands
Some sparkling trinket imitations
The empty suitcase by the bed
Now filled with all that money
She flicked a switch and closed the door
Her choice, the road to milk and honey
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