He’s a privileged,spoilt kid
And the story ends there.
We hear of such Marquis-sons
Who littered history, everywhere
And they always — always —
Got what they wanted
And whom they got rid of to get there
Never came back; and haunted.
You just see it — what he does
Is what his mind, to him, murmurs
And if you know not what that game is
You better soon, by joining a Learner’s.
What his mind says: limited imagination
Where the lack of it idly gestures.
And this driving around feeding the Ignorant
With his swine and profit-thrift jesters.
Good old Marquis style, the whip that thrashes you,
Immaculate justice to onlookers belts out.
When the benevolence of his fingers bless you by,
The very core of earthen molt melts out.