Them

They fatten themselves from the powerless,
Adding to their pain and longing.
Teasing them by asking more for less,
Early death their only belonging.
They tickle the fancies of the moneyed elite,
Who thank them for their collusion.
Watching them suffer as their funds deplete,
Lost in a state of delusion.
They goad and confound the bourgeoisie,
Swiping the rug from their feet.
Dangling carrots inches from reach,
To fill their minds with deceit.
They treat their wives as ill-gotten treasure,
Stolen from rivals of worth.
Counting the rewards of their pleasure,
They hated themselves from birth.
They walk to the light of a Sunday,
Wise to the might of the Lord.
Enslaving their flock every weekday,
Wearing them out till they’re bored.
They holiday in all the right places,
When news of hate hits the streets,
By the time they finally return,
The iron has straightened their pleats.