If you could know how much I make,
I'm sure to see you blush!
To reap the stipend that I do
Will mean, therefore, I look at you
From high above in my success
And say to you, 'Poor thing, God bless.'
The greedy bastard that I am -
I love to drown in bling;
Unlike you – so bloody poor, and
Picking coins up off the floor!
But sorry mate, I'm not to blame –
The fact your bank account is lame!
Come and see my flashy car
Awash inside with leather;
I saw the battered wreck you drive,
Spewing out its oily smog!
Your banger, friend, is such a dog,
Clanking out its dialogue.
I shall die in gleaming wealth,
Floating out in gentle stealth –
Having bought a glowing health.
As for you, my hard-up mate,
You'll fade away a slave to fate,
Surviving on the welfare state.
Copyright Mark R Slaughter 2009
Greed, greed, greed, greed
Greed, greed, feed the greed.