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Choreography’s Turkish Delight

On sediment at the bottom of the cup of societies 
   drags of dis-enfranchised masses are waiting for a
trickle from the leaks of luxury founded on coffee 
   planted on wealthy soil and pittances from labour

Reading the ground rules from a chalice turned
   upside down and upright once more the fortune
told and retold providence destined is unchanged
   its café royal remains a future chained to the past

The coffee knows what lies ahead no clairvoyance no
   Tarot palm lines crystal balls psychic power needed
on the menu of the human condition's commandments
   suspended the puppet master is still written in the stars

Strings attached Jo and Joan will always feed on scraps
   and they are strung to grinding bones and soul to the
core while exuding aroma of sweat blood and tears so
   that porcelain sheltered charm infuses delight for the few

In hypocritical slurps I write to the tune of my coffee and
   choreography remains until the revolution comes in vain

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