'' We All End Up Dead '' Poem by Bri Mar

Ten billion pounds,
Now doing the rounds,
It's enough to make one puke,
Now his atoms are doing the rounds,
I wonder if he's still a duke.

Money in sacks,
Wallet filled to the max,
With the rules there's none of them complying,
No need to pay inheritance tax,
Now that we should find mystifying.

To the rich it's a must,
We say it's unjust,
But fiddling for fun gives them pleasure,
By placing their fortunes in a dodgy trust,
It's guaranteed they won't lose their treasure.

He was never concerned,
That his fortune was earned,
Solely on the misfortune of others,
For murder and mayhem his ancestors yearned,
It's the truth that his history smothers.

Innocents overcome,
By murdering scum,
That's how their fortunes were made,
To the depths of Hell these scumbags did plumb,
To ensure that they made the grade.

They are parasites supreme,
Living the dream,
Living off their ill-gotten gains,
While we eat the dregs they lick the cream,
They laugh while we cope with the strains.

It isn't funny,
But all that money,
Does not guarantee a long life,
Though occasionally it can make life sunny,
It can cause the recipient great strife.

In life's great game,
Be it poverty or fame,
Be careful where you wish to tread,
The fact of life is we are all the same,
Regardless,

‘' We All End Up Dead ‘'