The Upper Class Game

The Upper Class Game

The good life?

Everything about it's fake.
False as upper class Dave,
And those smiles he'd make.

At dinner parties he'd cringed as they'd pupeteered
And winced at another 'how do you do?'
So his feelings&;#8230; were they engineered?
Is Eros a capitalist too?

She won't remember him.
Or the way that he'd tried,
Or the faults in his speech,
That he'd endeavoured to hide.
Probably didn't even notice&;#8230;
All the times he'd wrestled with his hair,
Or pulled out a chair,

Because he doesn't have a boat.
And his posture's all wrong.
And his nails are too long.

But there's something else wrong.

Like greed with six noughts
And it's smirking cohorts
Riding with pride in a Mercedes coffin
In a league of their own
Of them and them only
And one day soon
They'll realise they're lonely,
And in a voice comfortably coarse
He'll look down and say:

'I've beaten you all.
But not at your game.'