Yeah, you lot with the haughty faces
Wagging your pudgy fingers,
As if it was your place
To designate my status.
Bad smell is it,
That sets your nose ungainly high?
Well… aren’t you grand!
What precious, Punic peacocks standing
Deaf above the hue and cry!
From the hundreds
By the thousand, marking how the theft is rising
Puffed-up pride kicks to the wayside
Those indentured to your tithing…
What a troop of pompous prancers
Robs us in their finest weaves!
What a dubious intellect
That loves a nation on its knees!
But, oh my goodness!
Don’t you look and speak the part!
And aren’t you marvellous icons,
So adaptive and receptive
To the fashion of deceptive arts!
Just look at you!
All smug and snuggled up against the withered hordes
Well, aren’t you lucky! Aren’t you clever!
What vainglorious, cosseted and cozened crowing frauds!