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 contracts 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