The Philanthropist. Poem by Ripper Jones

The philanthropist vacates his seat
On the subway for an elderly person.
He always buys Big Issue
He never drops litter
He helps old ladies to cross the road.
He helps push broken down cars
With their broken down owners.
He gives to many charities,
But he is he a misanthropist?
He detests people that know themselves
And are happy to be alone with themselves
Also at ease with strangers.
Their very gregariousness upsets him

By only putting on a 'nice' mask can he be at ease,
And balm his hate-filled conscience
Through this put on niceness and sereneness
Through this well thought out methodology
He sets himself above the human ants as he sees them,
To be subjugated and trod on,
No better than programmed roots that
Bump into objects and turn around
He detests the brainwashed
The tabloid readers and television watchers
Fools that have their eyes open but cannot see

If humanity is worth nought but a fleeting gaze
He would be the judge who judges judges
The be-wigged counsels who make up precedence
And propagate asinine laws
Personified in their wholeness by the black hat
Pawns of leaders that send the minions to war
And owners of blind eyes

Every human being would be found wanting
Beside his polished-perfection
He always lives on the top storey,
To look down on journalists
Who fill newspapers with drivel,
Through his angst he is all-loving
A deity for for the higher philosophy
A god that the masses can truly worship
He wraps himself in a balmy cloak of comfort
Knowing of their immortality,
And forgetting the shiny-white skeletons they really are.