by Nick Gisburne
Our pissing on the peasantry, below,
Is more than spite or venomous contempt.
It gives them aspirations; now they know
In time they might achieve what they attempt.
Unworthy as these thugs and thieves may be,
Bewildered, and with nothing left to lose,
Perhaps we’ll seek their services. We’ll see.
Their finest may be fit to shine our shoes.
Of course, if they were born from better stock,
The benefits of breeding would apply,
But every man of means who lifts his cock
Will send a steaming statement from the sky:
The mumblecrusts and geezers at the gate
Should never be allowed to procreate.
