Fake Cakes At The Loss Lake Poem by John Sensele

Fuel shoots through the roof
Morsels of meals from your plate
Escape with neither trace nor proof
That sorrows in your tomorrow won't dilate

The plight you experience
In your budget
In the eminence of the prurience
Packed and stacked in the jetset gadget

In which they globe trot
Caring no iota for the welfare
You agreed wouldn't rot
In forests of fanfare

In which they bask
As you and your urchins languish
At the back of the calamity queue as they ask
What do you know about anguish?

Given your skinny status
In which fate imprisons your destiny
Much as you flatter the fetus
Growing in the sub-nutrition scrutiny

Which odds lumps on the majority
Who deserve nothing
Given your penchant and priority
To surrender your red card to the thing

That swallows your vote
Dumps you in the lurch
Boasting they can't to you devote
Attention when together you kneel in the church

To give the elite carte blanche
Nay, a blank cheque
To please and appease their bourgeois branch
As long as the end game dispenses fake cakes in the loss lake.