He wears tailored suits like a second skin,
Veiling the savage beast that dwells within.
His boardroom smile gleams cold, precise, and bright,
While he harvests souls in broad daylight.

With handshakes firm and nerves as cold as steel,
He poisons wells, then feigns the grief he feels.
His charity galas shine with hollow pride,
Where he auctions off the poor cast aside.

He comforts the widow whose home he foreclosed,
A picture of pity, so perfectly posed.
He feels not their sorrow, he shares not their pain,
Sees only a ledger, a margin of gain.

His smile is a sculpture, his laugh is a tool,
To master the righteous and flatter the fool.
Beneath the poised charm and the sharp-tailored suit,
A barren, cold winter has taken its root.

He speaks of values with a silver tongue,
Then siphons profit from collapsing lungs.
His marble offices tower toward the sky,
Built on the bones of those left to die.

He kisses his own children and tucks them in tight,
Then orders a famine to prove that he’s right.
For human connection is just a charade,
A weakness for others, a game to be played.

In mirrors he sees a hero of renown,
Not a monster wearing society’s crown.
The most terrifying truth we dare not quell:
He sleeps untroubled, as he crafts your living hell.

So praise the great man for the world he has built,
And polish his statue of marble and gilt.
You won’t see the monster who lives in his skin,
Until you’re the last he’s come for, locking you in.