Within those halls of Oxford,
You’ll find the boys club,
No girls or plebs permitted,
A bit of an Eton mess,
A dessert reserved for the select few,
Wealth always finding a seat at the table,

Like feudalism never died,
They toast and have their cake,
And wear their pretentious bibs,
Taught all the tricks of the gentry,
Feasting as the yobs chew dust,
As the elderly expire in the cold,

These lads are bound for greatness,
Not by virtue of competence,
But by being allowed a slice of that pudding,
Like something out of a pantomime,
It’s enough to make the common man sigh,
A reason to think lowly of the highly.

Comments
  1. Carol anne says:

    great poetry here! ❤

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