The Profits Vulture

Oh what dumb sheep and blind fools are we

To vote for those who empower the upper echelons of the bourgeoisie

For those suits, in hi-spec ivory towers, with their obscene salaries and bonus culture

Feed like fat cats on society's corpse, with their friend, the profits vulture

Austerity will bite in tenement blocks, far and wide, amidst winter's chill

Behind electronic gates the privileged few will luxuriate at St Georges Hill

Same country, but several mi££ion miles apart, across a yawning chasm

Where, obscenely, money seeks money with inappropriate enthusiasm

Leaden skies loom from the countryside to the concrete crush of the metropolis

Because deaf ears hear naught that's said, from those oppressed, amongst the populace

And so they'll gather and rise, for they've nothing to lose, and they'll kick down doors

A raging throng, who've had enough of platitudes, of a zero hours contract corps

Those suits should abandon their ivory towers, for there is a smell like sulphur

And make amends, all those fat cat feeders and their friend, the profits vulture

If not, one day they'll be found and bound as they play their insidious power games

And dragged through the impoverished streets where reality festers and ends in flames