They dance in darkness, poke fun at the workers,

Who polish their floors and shine their shoes,

For whom without, there would be no circus


Doom and gloom in the invisible ink

Sung to the melody of an unelected elite

Champagne flutes chime as laughter cries

As the God of a people reveals no afterlife

Chasing the shadows loitering over heads

To catch ghosts within a slow and painful death


Work until we’re dead to live, the irony

Eat like kings in slums we’re set to expire in

Idolise thieves because we want what you’ve got

Demonise kings for what they have; we have not


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