When I listen to those bastards on the telly
I feel my beating proletarian heart more clearly.
All the crap such elitist tricksters foisted
upon the masses over countless years,
the swindling lies and moral panic buttons
pushed by pearly chested twin-set ladies,
or hand-made suited slick-backed guys
(that specific one with the seriously untidy hair).
Hiding a pig-eyed wealth of stolen privileges,
smirky blue-eyed never-been-hungry boys and girls,
degrees got somewhere grand with daddy’s money
and mum’s, ‘never be an easy lay, but it’s ok to flirt.’
Their wide awake coke induced earnest stares,
and rictus red Faye Dunaway lipstick balms,
and don’t forget the jolly jolly laugh at anyone
who dares argue their opinion is not first class.
Those fawning bourgeois hangers-on, mendacious
as sycophantic changlings sucking from the teet,
the trough of scoff, denying workers constant sweat,
dismissing murder as tragedy and dreadful accident.
They love a blooding; a killing coming on. A thrilling.
Pink gins and champers. Fookin’ Stepford on steroids