.
From their private jets,
The primal privileged
Spot a spark earthwards,
The glint of the rolling
Out of guillotines.
Guillotines so tall, waiting,
Just for them and they know
It was coming, as they know
They have it coming.
The rabble they so despise,
Yet pander for as they pull
Wool and leave all in cold,
The wretched who someday
Read injustice in the leaves,
The Princes of sham, cloven,
Always bearing woven bags,
Carpet dreams of desperate,
Down trodden, never fearing
To be trampled, till the blade
Is shining in the searing light
Of new day.
For retribution is a fable
The reptilian upper classes
Are cold to see as it strikes,
Their forked tongues,
Eventual as slimy winter
Strangles themselves
In a hollow cave,
Unmarked.
Even the dirt is soiled
With their fame, their
Scaled names, even
Sun will not shine
On the bloodied blots
They have wrought.
Such murderous stiffs,
Who enslaved all warmth
And empathizers in a rug
Fit for a tomb. And all their
Art as false as they!
The earthy shall rise
And salt their mortal
Wounds, songs will not be sung
For the indifferent masters
Who now pour into streets
Made for severed muck.
The only beauty they left:
Opulent, soppy-red coiffured heads
As they roll on the potholed,
Sooty pavements.
