Fat Cats

Fat Cats winching
At the taste of soured cream,
Hoarded money belts leaking
From threaded broken dreams,
They’re down to their last millions
And feeling quite obscene,
Doing anything to keep
This self-indulgence it would seem.

A three year old named Chantan
Living in a wretched place,
Finds no solace in
A starving mother’s tear stained face,
His swollen empty tummy
Craves a morsel or just a taste,
From the decomposing surplus
Of what the Fat Cat calls his waste.

Poverty and pestilence
Oppression with no release,
The result of avariciousness
An elitist world minority disease,
So who will bravely challenge
To take up arms against this beast,
And give some other little Chantan
A life of freedom, choice and peace.

You don’t need a nuclear weapon
And a powerful nation’s voice,
Or a particular religion piety
To motivate a global rejoice,
Just take a pen and paper
And send enthused heartfelt invoices,
Demanding an ethical payment
To those who dictate the choices.

by Phillip Gallant

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