A Jolly Good Show

I consider this to be a narrative accolade in which you and I, providing we are at least slightly similar, 
shall kneel down in a passive round of applause. 

Look up to those above you and congratulate them on their five-figure bank balances in which they never worry 
about what follows the decimal point. 
Shake their hands for allowing us to perform crutch-like duties for sums of money that wouldn't feed their fattened, comfortable, unloved children. 
Kiss their wives on the cheek for their repression in keeping these suited testosterone-free men smiling. 
Then lick clean the shoes of the young lady in the background who hangs her head in their laps to keep the ego afloat and the pocket money flowing. 
Praise their children for being over-eating, ungrateful little swine who will never see struggle outside of their faining subconscious desire for life outside a dead living. 

Oh, how we praise you and your steel curtains that we will never see inside of, other than when they make a congratulatory television programme about your empty capitalist lives. 
You keep the idiots dribbling as they see the bumbling fool excel, and hope hopelessly that they will, one day be recognised for the heartless exploitation of our desperate conditions. 
I bow down to them as I sit here drinking a pint that makes the rent impossible, but keeps the sanity levels high enough to not jump from their high rise, executive flats. 

I am their choice-less slave, waiting for the next pay cut or rise in V.A.T so that they can afford petrol and air miles to take them and their empty families to countries where the locals hate them, but they never notice because they are imitations of Jesus Christ, bringing the gift of their cancerous personalities to people who can no longer live freely because of the regimes they support. 

To the man in the suit, with the five figure bank balance, we salute you for giving us this struggle which, despite our starvation and depleting humour, we can find each other and have conversations in which you dance in pits of unforgiving flame, 
so that we can keep on living; putting our hard uncomfortable hours in to your bulging pockets. 
And, the world keeps turning for your ever so important pleasure. 

To you sir, thank you... Oh so very much.