What of Honour Is Left
The meal deal, the power crush.
The entitled airs they seek so much.
Swallow dignity, swallow pride.
The panelled walls of entitlement house their hides.
What of humility, what of honour is left?
Power and greed above all else.
To the sycophantic grovelling horde.
Your spines were not meant for you to crawl.
Make your deal to have your snout in the golden trough. Quote your Latin spiel and have your hoorah intercourse.
Your faustian deals will burn your souls.
Copyright © A Yorkshire Poet | Year Posted 2022
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