Isaac Newton hugged his inventions,
paper lovers, close to his chest.
He handed them over at the Company’s behest.
The Company gave him a car,
a Humber Snipe,
the Company gave him a reason for life.
The Company loved him.
So did Mum.
But the Company squeezed his heart in a vice,
it was faithless.
It winked and capered.
Dad lugged his soul that the Company bent
to the side of the grave, a short dark bed.
‘I feel crook,’ he said
and lumbered in.
‘They’ve been good to us