The Mogg
‘You speak o’ the peopleAs if you were a god to punish, notA man of their infirmity.’ Coriolanus
An oily, unctuous stick of a manWith a bad smell tickling his nose,Whose mummy and nanny, singing his worth,Remind him, since his noble birth,That the populace is nothingBut a greasy mess of no matter –They will burn for they do not bear brainsTo see what their betters see.
The screaming tenant in the tower blockLike the young girl raped and pregnantAre ideas in the greater mind –Forms in the Platonic heaven to ponderAnd proclaim upon –Stupidity and sin have to pay the priceSo the Mogg and his like can ooze sorrow.