It bubbles up,
stirred and whipped
by those whose bidding requires it.
They shall face no consequence,
not in this life no doubt,
no
the ones who do are an aberration
in this theme park
created for five hundred.
We staff and attractions bleat and bay
to them,
begging for scraps to
clothe and feed while others
stamp and crush,
our bucket overflows
as we grab and hold,
writhing. We are held down,
hard boot on soft skin
so that they indulge in
twisted times,
perverting our lives with
the complacency of a man
standing on an ant.
This ant hill shall
explode, you know,
and devouring we shall go.