Looking down on the Scales of Justice

There's a certain place in the city,
You'll guess that it has to be high,
Where a man's looking down without pity
On pedestrian passers by.

He's the head of a big institution
Where shares are the principal trade
And his job is to give the illusion
That the money is honestly made.

A judge leaves the underground station
Adjusting his wig in the wind.
The Old Bailey is his destination
To serve sentence on those that have sinned.

He looks up at the shadowing building
Without knowing he's being observed;
He can't see that the look's condescending
From a place where morality's curved.

The director can't see the attraction
Of rewards that are other than pay,
Even judges don't earn a small fraction
Of what he will be making today;

And if anyone questions his dealing
They won't drag him down to the court
He knows what the briefs find appealing;
His freedom is easily bought.

The statue on top of the Bailey
Gleams gold in the light of the sun.
The director looks down on it daily
As it's business, not justice, that's done.