There’s a house on a river,
Tan and gothic in aesthetic,
Accompanied by a grand clock,
It’s a house of relics,
And I don’t mean antiques,
Red and blue in blood,

Sat along benches feigning opposition,
Breathing naught but dust and hot air,
They pass edicts destroying millions,
Guffawing and cheering like children,
Starvation and poverty are the gifts they offer,
The serfs shall be happy with crumbs,

They’re despicable little men,
Fat cats in silly wigs,
A deceitful gentleman’s club,
Just out for their chums,
It seems they’ve packed this flophouse out,
The house now only holds whispers of fraud,

You may ask,
Has honesty ever graced its halls?
Well there was this one Guy called Fawkes.

Comments
  1. Well done! The reference to Guy Fawkes at the end tied your imagery together nicely!

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