The phone tells me,
that I’m heaven sent.
Metric can where metric see,
Even if they do it – empirically.
Imperially speaking,
of the ruling class,
were scum on earth,
I’ve heard them agasp.
They complain and whine,
whinge and agast.
Maybe they be better,
donning a new cast.
Ties and belt,
handkerchiefed pockets,
Pleasts and plaids,
hats shaped like rockets.
Tracking and tracing,
judging just so,
Did you think they’d,
just let you go?
Blood monies,
from those bloody diamonds,
so kids can work,
the mines for desires.
Maybe they’re lucky,
maybe they can.
Maybe they fall,
mom’ll only crying sand.
Maybe they make it,
I’ve not met one.
Maybe they’re rich,
and sipping champers in France.
Maybe there home,
minding the kids,
filling their heads,
with toxic I cans.
Maybe they’re out,
getting a roll,
so they can hold it above,
and show it to all.
Maybe they’re sitting,
still as a rock,
inventing new way,
to democratize you lot.
Or maybe many,
are pushing pens,
punching holes,
grinning from begin to the ends.
Maybe they’re not,
getting all kicked,
not getting abused,
not getting stitched.
Not getting lied to,
not getting it stole,
not getting unqualified,
and not growing old.
With heads like tomahawks,
and shoulders like leaves,
frail and weak,
they know how to please.
Stay focused on money,
stay focused on growth,
grow a new set,
so the kids’ll have doughith
Then we fill their heads with all the fears,
watch the wars and listen to tears.
Read the disasters and read the results,
who here says – its better – or else.