The gains, ill-gotten, of the ruling class
Who from birth force toil upon the working poor
Have wealth only by vanity surpassed
Gold conjures an illusion of grandeur
Vainglory is the province, wisdom feign
Power hereditary in spite of skill
Unfit to serve a public they disdain
On wars and misery they stake a thrill

Impassioned, I,  for conquest in their game
The pleb outwit the tyrant, relegate
Warmongers 'gainst whom my pen take righteous aim
Doth their crimes and sins interrogate