The rich are cursed

always first

in queues, they never feel thirst, 

their chests burst

with pride, while lackeys durst

not cross them, opponents are coerced,

and they are so versed, so very well versed

in the avoidance of tax and all other such vexations, and so

morality is reversed

in the looking glass world in which they are immersed. 

If ill, in luxury they're nursed,

in life, protected from the worst

and so

they are cursed. 

 

The poor may be distressed,

dressed in rags, but are blessed,

they get more of the best,

the love expressed,

knowing we are but guests

on this planet, unseduced by the wealth of the West,

and its lies. I have never seen more zest

than in the children of the poorest, who the rich call pests. 

They laugh, they wave, they call, they jest. 

The last will be first, but will the wealthy find rest? 

My lips are pursed, I'm unimpressed.

The Rich are cursed, the poor are blessed.