Hollowed out with Avarice
Or devoid of decent meal
Two percent with loot unspent
Say they know how “we” feel
Their talking heads are everywhere
Flick on flat screen TV
Two years from now or maybe ten
They’ll sound the same when in 3-D
We are the “job creators”
You can’t tax us to death
A lie trickled down from gilded hills
And spoken with perfidious breath
Shakespeare said the world’s a stage
And its men and women merely players
Seven ages made all the worse
By immoral “Altruistic naysayers”
They’ll ply the masses with their gadgets
All redeemed with credit card
Then collect the blood in golden cups
As we’re gouged with plastic shards
Their wealth will grow and those below
Will someday get the hint
That the eye of the rapacious
Always has, and always will, cast pernicious glint
Yet until then mine solemn friends
We are doomed barefoot in thistle
Pacified then cast aside
Content with Bells and Whistles
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