Capitalism cries pearly tears...
Easter passed over with a golden bow,
x-rays of expense nest eggs looked negative.
Perhaps people could be trusted to rule justly
even though the Lords milked us dry billing
nineteen thousand pounds for hand cream,
seventy thousand for shoe trees seemed steep –
ecology legislation drawn up with a crayon.
And then a moat, a porn film, a great
cock throbbing spunks right in our faces,
clogs up circulatory pipes, stains receipts
oily damp, the stench of fusty musk held
under our noses, wrapped in right-wing
nob rags that litter the streets lustfully,
tossed into stuck gutters. We adapt to
swim silky streets strung with bourgeois jizz.
Surface to see a solution, an island of
change, the tip of an office block salvation
and swim out to that small tarmac square;
notice there’s a man there with a megaphone,
directing the land-wrecked to his utopia
angrily outlining his agenda, he is Emperor,
lest his new people speak louder than him.
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