All The Fuss Poem by Catherine Casey

Of course to keep things tidy
Body clean and mind rust free
But why the fuss of pompousness?
More ridicule – less me.


Claiming rights to spend the tax
On what matters less each day.
The poshest bags, the show of trend
The fashion come-what-may.


Repute that may be general
While on the shopping front.
A rule of thumb – security.
‘They’re stealers! ’ Let’s be blunt.


At the risk of seeming primitive,
An underclass to sneer at.
‘Please take a linger at my throne’
A life’s work just to peer at.


To gratify the selfness
While communal in apparel.
Disguised as servers born.
Nobility in peril.


To build upon illusion
Of stateliness for few,
While building huts for common lot
To let them stand in queue.


The matter of what constitutes
The pay for the incentive,
Remains for minds of men,
To be fair while being inventive.


By sweat of brow there’s no escape.
At least upon this plane.
Born to work – that’s all of us.
Growing elite by mass’s pain.


Subject yet called a voter,
With a say yet thin disguised.
Conspire to keep in check
All wholly compromised.


The poor though always with us,
Could do with helping hand.
A lessening of the burden.
A spreading of the grand.


In passing of the former things
When tables are reversed,
At least the righteous judge
Has given notice first.