|Squandering Over. Deserved Status.|
When given what you want, nothing ever looks
the same way again; you see morally generous men
as crooks, and those who sin against you or steal your
petty spirits are the ones as white rooks, the white-collared businessmen
disguised by their color and colorful suits (and money). What
an annoying instance of prejudiced opposites. Or ignorance. But you,
rich in your excessive spending, reap
awards that should never, ever have been
awarded; because like the rook,
you walk straight down the hall
way of your greed mansion, held in hellish scansion. Fool.
(Not to say your house is the equivalent beauty of verse, just
that it is the reverse of its purpose and supposed dignity—doesn’t display what you are,
at least not directly. Because you deserve hell, cheap boy caught by angels.)
Full of yourself. Quite sickening, spoiled, like meat long left
in its corpse, after ancient undergoing of predator. (If you would stop
preying on the ones who can hardly keep their penny enough without you
knocking on their little tin cup …)
The flies. When they cover, which is all the time, you swat them with your fancy
swatter, and then you patter your skitter to overflow your royal
blood that falls over its pathetic weakness; for
heredity, awfully cheap representation of your hopeless presented being, with your
never quitting this present
of yourself. Okay, clearly selfishness now has been established. Or has it not
yet slammed your conscience? Long tainted by the dirty will of your hopeless
representation, before Christmas even comes? Can’t you wait?
No. You’re just happy the old buddies of your past are dead, they were just your
family. No big deal. Except for the left estate. And I still really
doubt they meant to let you
burn in your money-relied world.
But your empire fell. Or, burned down. What a deserved situation! that came. Toppled
over your top. You held flimsy bills up as though they could
hold bricks. Like they would want to help you after your
endless abuse of them. Or did
you really believe they’d help, slow one?
Not of matter. You’re poor now. The streets are all yours.
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