by Nick Gisburne
A circle of sophisticated snobs,
We rule this rotten world without remorse,
A class above, beyond the baying mobs,
And utterly invincible, of course.
The vulgar peasants, clamouring for scraps,
Deceived, divided, fight amongst themselves,
While we, the breed apart, the boys, the chaps,
Take everything, and simply stack our shelves.
We sympathise, we say. It isn’t true.
We spare no time to understand their pain.
Whatever move we make, in all we do,
We let the scum, the stupid, take the strain.
For us, the smug, superior elite,
There are no complications. Life is sweet.
