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I drink privilege, I breath iniquity.
Everything around me wreaks of docile obsequisy.
I was a born a prince, of a minor province.
And ever since, I have often heard words minced,
By those below, who dare but tow
The line of those above who hardly know
What ghastly sacrifices
Line their perfect patios.
For I was once one of the elect,
But now I am derelict.
But I yet carry the residue of favour,
Even though I am now considered a mere ranting raver.
My heart is broken but my bank-balance is booming,
So I cannot scream without drawing entombing
Glances, which look askance at what I can possibly mean.
There is no punishment for those who have stolen but a dream.
Truly, I would be content in a tent,
But I have rubies to pay my rent.
I can feel your envy already,
Try as I might to appeal to your pity.
Even worse than my wealth, I am in fantastic outward health,
And still even sometimes passably witty.
Yes, one could even say I have a talent,
For constructing rhyme, with sense still all but paramount.
But neither, I suspect, will you feel admiration,
For one whose losses heap up such desolation.
I am thought mad by all accounts,
Plus with all these pills
There's nothing left inside my pants.
Turning the t.v. on is practically like climbing a steep hill.

Privilege and inequity,
Two forces in fixed enmity.
Cancelling out our pathos.
I look around me, and see the world's sweat, blood, and tears,
Is spent on trinkets, and 5th holiday homes
For those passing a few most miserable years,
Too sick from depravity to reside in them.
Billions squandered on mimicking melanasome,
While the pale soul gathers dust, with nary an 'amen'.
Women careering too recklessly to care for her mother's aching bones,
And fathers flying too high to read stories to their children.
As for the millions starving in Africa- they can all rot.
Isn't that right, you greedy old sot?
The meat industry? It's swell.
Well done-you've created a living hell!
But its foolish to condemn, truly, I suppose,
We who suffer from it most are ourselves,
Its just the way that the wind, it blows,
We are destined to die the ironic, unlovely death of fallen angels.
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