He wears tailored suits like a second skin,
A civilized shell for the rot within.
His boardroom smile gleams cold, precise, and bright,
As he signs away lives in broad daylight.

With handshakes firm and eyes like polished stone,
He poisons wells, then weeps in practiced tone.
His galas toast the causes he creates,
Auctioning cures for plagues he cultivates.

He comforts the widow whose home he foreclosed,
A picture of pity, so perfectly posed.
Her tears are a metric, her grief a receipt,
He files her grief as gain, the ledger complete.

His smile is a sculpture, his laugh is a tool,
To master the righteous and flatter the fool.
He’s memorized sorrow, can weep on command—
A surgeon of ruin with a butcher’s hand.

He speaks of values with a gilded tongue,
Then siphons profit from collapsing lungs.
His towers rise where tenements once bled,
Cathedrals of glass on the bones of the dead.

He kisses his children and tucks them in tight,
Then orchestrates famine to prove that he’s right.
He’s grooming them gently for all he bequeaths—
The smile as a weapon, the knife underneath.

In mirrors he finds only heaven’s design,
The builder, the giver, the almost divine.
He sleeps without shadows, no moral debts weighed—
The void feels no guilt for the graves it has made.

So worship the man and the empire of gilt,
Forget how it rose upon catastrophe’s silt.
He’ll stand in the graveyard and balance his debts,
While futures are bartered before the sun sets.