You wear your shackles well
Your prosperity like cheap perfume
The difference is hard to smell
For a darkened shit-fed mushroom

It’s a fairground three card trick
And the money card is in the middle
But you’ve fallen for Tory shtick
Like accepting the “truth” of a riddle

We’re falling at a different speed
But we’re all falling as prey at their feet
Like wounds that refuse to bleed
They delude you with high flung deceit

You feel like a peacock in plume
But you’re carrion beneath circling skies
A morsel wearing cheap perfume
Neo-chattel marching to your demise.


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