The Rich of Hores
The terrible curse of the tory boor,
To cheat your brother, rob him sure,
To steal away his downtrodden wife,
To want not yours,
Then curse does bite,
Moral flaws 4 sure,
4 greed doth oil the wheels and cogs,
Avarice aplenty tory dogs,
Would steal the fur right off the frogs,
If they had sign of any?
So seveny years if ya heart dont fail,
You can rob all of wages stale,
And death can jerk your gorged entrails,
But can you pay ole charon any?
So poor again beside the styx,
You sob with other tory hicks,
Accursed by the greed that sticks,
Saint peter isnt friendly???
Don Johnson
Copyright © Don Johnson | Year Posted 2014
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment