Insightful little wreck,
With your stumbling pity.
You stand up in your high rise
looking down upon the peasants,
and you think, oh, how desolate.
How weak, how underprivileged.
How wise you are, you coward
of corporate attitude. You,
who stands rich in your white shoes.
You play for sport what we pay for in blood
and, when all is done and dried,
you call it littered art on your
crown molding walls. How easy,
how simple it must be. Born into it,
or worked for it, fine. The pavement
under your feet lasts, but the power
of your suit decays as an autumn leaf.