'' That My Friends Is Obscene '' Poem by Bri Mar

Those masters we've served,
Have always observed,
The manner in which the worker behaves,
Regardless we tend to remain reserved,
That's why they treat us like slaves.

They tend to take note,
Only some of us vote,
The rest they've no need to appease,
It's to us their time they tend to devote,
Saying whatever they think will please.

Take world politicians,
They make it their missions,
To hypnotise us into believing,
That they alone will cement our positions,
While our pockets they are relieving.

Take royalty too,
They do nothing for you,
Yet their lifestyle we pay for and cherish,
What right have they to tell us what to do,
Believe me they would let you perish.

Take the superstars,
With their fancy cars,
Living a long life of splendour,
Personally I'd send them all to Mars,
For the greediest they're a strong contender.

I know it sours,
But they're servants of ours,
Yet it's us these people demean,
Yet In their presence the worker cowers,

‘' That My Friends Is Obscene ‘'