You don’t know
how to tie your shoes;
your information spews
from sycophant’s news.
A soul that festers
in love with it’s reflection
is too toxic to receive
true love and affection.
I guess you need feed
off of golden trimmed plates.
Others arrive early to eat,
you arrive fashionably late.
Your presence begs
to steer clear of beggers.
The place you desire
is in your golden treasures.
Go call your maid to
tie those gilded shoes.
I’ll give you not pleasures
of praises no not for you.
Go ride your plane,
crying, “Off with their heads.”
Your soul stinks of greed
so much your empathy is dead.
