You know that in the silence there is a volume of sound,
A whisper of the decadent falling to the ground,
Their jewels and their poise,
The china faces and steady stances crumbling to the floor of marble like broken toys,
A weeping victim now laughs at the corrupt as they fail,
Their alibis and cover-lies aren't fit for humans now.

They collapsed under the weight of deceit, that decadent class,
Of champagne flutes and crystal glass,
Now standard thrift-shop plastic beakers,
Stalking 'round in second hand sneakers,
No noise from the debauched, not a sound of relevance,
The bliss of watching it unfold, the descent of decadence.