We upper-crust must be discussed
In deferential accents.
We want not, waste, exhibit taste,
Possess exquisite tax-sense.
In France’s terror we were there,
Our necks outstretched for ax-mince,
But here our dough’s so long-ago
We’ve mostly been relaxed since.
We middle-crust of course are just
(Between two poles) the middle.
We see the pie up in the sky
And want our slice, but it’ll
Take more than faith (the Profit saith)
For we to solve the riddle.
In short, a lot of us are not
Content with second fiddle.
Us lower-crust are full of lust
For wrestling, beer, and Nascar.
We live on crumbs but spend big sums
To find where bigger bass are.
If you like books we’ll hate your looks
(That’s what we’ll kick your ass for).
Our necks are red-must be inbred.
Who says there ain’t no class war?
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