## **A Feast of Crumbs**  
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![file-DRDn7LGgUMJ23qq3CRKhDy.webp](https://images.hive.blog/DQmYd87X9LDofg6dpmZArPVzuTKoxiTrtxaS1xJPLGGYvqm/file-DRDn7LGgUMJ23qq3CRKhDy.webp)

Beneath the gilded spires where champagne rivers flow,  
A tycoon sips the sunset, sprinkling dreams like crumbs below.  
"Let them eat stock portfolios!" he laughs, adjusting diamond sleeves,  
While beggars hawk their dignity for half-rotten cabbage leaves.  

The councilmen in ermine cloaks draft laws on parchment gold
*"To own the air’s a human right!"* (but sold in parcels, cold).  
Their fountain pens bleed rhetoric: *"All boats shall rise!"* they swear,  
As orphans row their ribcage boats in seas of thinning air.  

Madam Progress clicks her heels on marble-tiled campaigns,  
Her hashtags bloom like orchids… *yet the roots still smell of chains.*  
She posts a tearful selfie where the slums blur to a haze
*A vintage filter masks the stench of minimum-wage days.*  

See Corporate Virtue’s grand ball! How the philanthropists waltz,  
Tossing copper-plated pity through their bulletproofed vaults.  
"Tax-deductible compassion!" sings the choir of loopholes,  
While factory lungs cough symphonies of uninsured coal.  

The influencer of equity bathes in milk baths, pearly pure,  
Preaching *"Privilege is poison!"* from her marble portico door.  
Her woke app tracks the tears of serfs (each sob a crypto-point)
*“Redeem them for a conscience!”* (But the servers disappoint.)  

In schools, they teach the peasants hymns to chant in loyal glee:  
*"Work harder, climb the ladder! It’s a meritocracy!"*  
Yet the ladder’s splintered rungs dissolve to sand when grasped,  
And the only "merit" guaranteed? The womb from which you’re clasped.  

The emperor’s new policies parade in naked greed
*"Trickle-down economics!"* (But the taps bleed lead, not seed.)  
His vaults are full of silence, stacked where protests dare not tread,  
While food banks line the gutters with the futures of the dead.  

O splendid Inequality! Your feast is vast, obscene
A banquet for the toothless gods who chew on machines.  
We, the flies, lap spilled wine from your table’s splintered edge,  
And sing your praises, lest we join the smudge beneath your hedge.  

So toast to grand delusions! Let the farce maintain its sheen
The poor will keep their patience, and the rich? Their guillotine.  
But hush, dear fool—don’t whisper truths that prick the bloated sphere,  
For even satire’s mirror cracks when raw despair draws near.  

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![IMG_20241213_190036.png](https://images.hive.blog/DQmdMQCud6iwayARpmBgrW3te1QHGf4uRJLJyFJTxe3foZ4/IMG_20241213_190036.png)
***Image created by AI***

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