The lower echelons

The margins on fur coats
are clearly astronomical
built into a profit base
that’s pathological
where men of the lower order
carry on their trade
from the dank and darkly places
where souls are stripped and laid
waste in those satanic mills
beyond the light of day
festooned with myriad spiders webs
where filth and where decay
are part of the emotion
the evil that is there
man kills off all devotion
and makes his charges pay

its hardly life for all of them
the squalor all around
cages drenched in urine
in all of it we’re drowned
how can this be logical
why do they sink so low
the margins clearly account for much
so what is there to show
the ugliness of humans
who take a rich resource
and parody its being
they take a soul and force
a change to its circumstances
as vile as any known
and all of this is meant
to be worthy of being shown

the air there who would choose
to breathe such stale and foetid smoke
rank with languid lifelessness
in such a world they soak
their skins are all important
their flesh as weak as hell
their minds are entering crazy stage
a stage that we know well
bar biting rolling heads about
superficially
as sane as any city dweller
paying to be free

but here encased in boredom
wild souls that like to roam
here the prison holds them
whilst they dream of their far home
a sanity afore thought
an expression of the time
the silence and regression
relived as they mime
every point of contact
in their hearts they see
whilst absorbing all this evil
now upon them seemingly

the hindrance of location
hampering their sight
an impediment to all they knew
an ever growing blight
and the laggards in attendance
brutal bastards who
torture and impoverish
the whole damn maligned crew
feel doomed and so afflicted
by the perils that they bring
into each scenario when some of us they fling

around the cage around the room
their anger without cause
like thunder through our tunnels
we feel that we must pause
and hear our own hearts beating
our own breath intermittent
we don’t feel like competing
it just feels abirritant

causation unintelligible
the quagmire clearly here
we are so frustrated
we are soaked in fear
we know death is arriving soon
we know we feel and we
are masters of resentment
left without a plea

the margins were colossal
for the upper echelon
for us down in the darkness
everything is gone
food even the water
of life is seldom here
light these common freedoms
these qualities we hold dear
all of them denied to us
an inkling of the stress
the wasting of our muscles
that we cannot address
the sores that bleed incessantly
the ulcers how they bleed
our teeth are literally falling out
we know where this will lead

taken out and skinned alive
hooked up to that place
a last look at the sunlight
and the fart whose a nut case
rips us through the agony
the memory of it
for want of any other thought
our bowels may pass some shit
we realise but too soon
its over we are gone
and emptiness within us
our organs thrown upon

a great stack of cadavers
some movements may be so
as nerves take on a new life form
and others sort of grow
and slide into each other
analogous to whom
what ever it once mattered
when it left its mothers womb

now it doesn’t alter
anything life force is gone
each skin is what they were after
and will be made to don
some harlot who is without a mind
without a spirit who
will wear
despair and chortle
with their noses in the air
paid by Satan’s servants
to wear our dead skins, and
perpetrate the evil
with what is their flagrant stand

against those who would try to
remind the world that we
were sacrificed and murdered
and why it had to be
the upper class have noses
that sit well in the air
but that awful smell of roses
is unnatural and should scare
any mindful person who knows
the earth was made
and we souls were to share it too
not bolster the fur trade