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From the shoulders of geniuses (to the backs of the poor),

Lining your filthy pockets (with the tears of the sore),

The sick, and the dying. (This dollar sign disease)

Has you standing; and, (we’re all on our knees)

Shine onto us in this our hour of need,

We are aging filthy and corpulent.

Shine onto us in our hour of greed,

We are the liars filthy and purulent.

Take everything you want (and live without guilt);

While we find what we need (in the hope that you’ve built).

This red-cross rape factory (where the sick get poor)

and you’ve poisoned the well (so we’ll come back for more)

Waning in valor, starved by your preclusion,

We've swallowed your semen with phallus in hand;

Poisoned rapaciously by your pollution,

We frolic in ailments we don't understand.