I make my money and earn my crust
By breaking the law for the dollars lust
You call me scum, a thieving rat
But am I different to the Bankers that
Steal your stash to feather their nest
Then make you pay to clear up their mess
Haw Haw they huff, let's defraud defraud
Subserve the minions - whilst we hoard
The Old Boys Club is really impinged
With public school a la floppy fringe
They wink their way in to a highly paid job
And without a mask commence to rob
The powerless public of money well earned
Under the premise of knowledge learned
From father to son - a passed down skill
To pillage the poor - diminish their will
And so it goes on, 'till a story breaks
That they want more tax on all that you make
To pay for them that have messed up so much
Again, it's solved with a common 'touch'
So call me a thief, call me a rat
But am I different to the Bankers that.....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.