Saturday morning blues.
‘Let me sleep for one more hour!’
you yell yet whisper.

Dreaming of something
to do with Russians, mowers,
and manicured moustaches.

You’ve got a thing for the
Way moustaches grow, move,
and fly about demurely.

The Russians excite you,
as you think about bedding
another Oligarch or two.

Today will be a random kind
of day where you become
a semi-exciting philosopher.

The cat looks at you with
her resting bitch face;
she’s plotting your demise.

You knew when the two of
you met that the cat was a
capitalist, yet you melted.

She reminds you of your
tricky dilemma: Justifying
21st-century slavery.

You move from your Egyptian
Cotton sheets to your lush carpet,
then to your opulent shower.

‘It’s a hard life being so philosophical’,
you say quietly, yet you’re a CEO of a
company and you just fired 40 people.

Looking in the mirror, you can’t see it;
there’s an entitled air about you and
it moves with you through your life.

You play the down and our philosopher,
yet you don’t care about people;
just the clinic of gold bars in your safe.

The cat looks at you with disdain;
She swipes your leg with a paw, then
runs away to her food bowl.

You know she is just like you,
yet you better go and appear as though
you care for all those slaves.

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