the emperor’s old clothes
erstwhile the pageant circumvents
the thought centres of our sentience
and bids as pied piper rats that we
follow on from precedent
and bow my liege lord to lick the boots
of a man who cares but not two hoots
as we die in his slum country estates
plebeians plebeians but just your fates
so wave your flags as the gilded coach
runs over your toes and even worse
a police state now your final rights remove
down on your knees down on your luck
do you really think he cares a fuck
No comments:
Post a Comment