It walks among us, richly crowned,
On grieving backs its gold is found.
Its tongue, all marble—smooth, polite,
Our hearts the feast for the parasite.

It wears no fangs, it shows no claws,
It sanctifies its theft with laws.
It preaches growth, yet lives must pay,
From gilded pulpits that mask decay.

It feeds on labor, blood, and breath,
It drinks from wages starved to death.
It sells you hope, it steals your time,
Then drains your soul to fuel its climb.

The common good, a thinning feast,
Where honest hands receive the least.
The bridges crack, the wells run dry
Beneath a cold, unblinking sky.

The feast unending, debts accrue,
Engorged hands reach to harvest you.
The pickpocket dons a tailored suit,
While false virtues bear poisoned fruit.

It whispers sweet of streams that bless,
As factories close in emptiness.
The host grows gaunt, the guest grows fat,
The tyrant—democracy’s aristocrat.

The irony: we praise their names,
Chanting their creeds, stoking their flames.
The marionette applauds the strings,
While parasites are crowned as kings.

A crueler truth cuts deepest still:
We bred them with our collective will.
We built the system, cell by cell,
That eats us from within so well.

Yet the truest horror, stark and grim,
Is when you start to think like him.
The host, to live, adopts the blight,
And learns to feed on its own light.