A not so brave pyugh world
So we, the elite, are soon to pass
and take leave of this world.
Doomed by the deeds which came to pass
whose hell is soon to be unfurled.
We are the very victims of
our own efficiency.
The air grows fowl, we sniff and cough
and struggle just to see.
For all the farms attend themselves.
Our need for food? No more.
The robots even fill the shelves
or fetch it to our door.
We sit around and think all day,
'Enlightenment' we seek.
The working class has gone away.
(We culled the last, last week.)
For what use are the peasantry
when toil has gone away?
We focus on mere pleasantry
and while away each day.
The low life scum did not amuse
nor contribute a jot.
How quaintly though, they formed their queues.
(Not knowing, for the Gallow's Knot; ¬)
But now we too will face Death's scythe
and join the low class number.
We lay here dying, lean and lythe.
The shitter's broke and we can't get a plumber.
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