no one wants to buy me,

I’m too expensive you see,

so expensive I’m poor,

that’s how expensive one can be.

thing is I’m cheaper than chips,

certainly cheaper than the press,

can I be a client journalist?

pay me a squillion and you’ll see.

I’ll paint words on your ass,

make sure that they last,

and make absolutely sure,

deep in my core,

that you’ll get stuck in the throat of history.

if neoliberalism is right,

then as long as I don’t care,

I can be as rich as bullingdon brexiteer,

just give us a go.

I need money to prove,

my devotion to dough,

goes way beyond known,

the bloated old crown.

I’m so free to enjoy,

all the oil of the world,

fly along on blubbery bands,

down cash diseased rivers,

of globbery snot shite.

be a part of the elite,

watch as the world burns,

drinking champers in clouds,

fiddling those expenses,

like everyone else.

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