“The Feast of the Idle” Poem

 Title: “The Feast of the Idle”

In towers high where the curtains close,
The idle men in shadows doze—
Their fingers long, their faces fat,
They pull the strings—imagine that.

They own the shelves, the doors, the locks,
They set the price of bread and box.
With every cent they twist the screw,
And laugh as hunger lines the queue.

Below them march the soulless folk,
In trolleys rusted, dreams went broke.
The shopping dead with branded eyes,
Still chasing deals, still buying lies.

They fear to look too poor, too bare,
So they return—though shelves are snare.
They fight for scraps, they snarl, they plead,
While masters toast on stolen greed.

The market’s song is not your friend,
It charms you softly to the end.
And every price you pay with grace
Crowns one more king behind your face.

So rise, ye watchers of this play,
And burn the masks of sweet decay.
For until then, the feast goes on,
And we are fed until we’re gone.