Oh knaves, who lie back among your plush towers of privilege,
Gazing down on us who toil and travail just to reach the ghosts of an evening meal.
Your laughter a rippling cacophony of treacherous deceit and gilded devilry,
Lust dancing on your tongues as you choose whores for the night’s delight.
Oh degenerate one, who bends his Machiavellian head at the Church’s door,
Before crucifying the plebeians, you lift a finger – for all to see, caressing their cheeks.
But, they will turn as surely as the waning moon and ebbing tide,
Pride frothing from your engorged head as the pensioner feeds you morsels of her dignity.
Despair not, oh rogue charlatan, the light of her eye may cut in two your banker’s draft,
But, we will rise as surely as the sun turns upon the horizon.
Living off ether, she glides through the pungent airs of your rotting greed,
Shimmering like daylight in the orchards of a blind man.