Praised be our racehorse owners,
Well-tailored and well-heeled,
Who gaze from the enclosure
Upon the surging field.
Red-faced they cheer and stamp and scream
As if they’d go berserk,
And dream upon their winnings
While the horse does all the work.
They’re our beloved ruling class,
The glory of our nation.
At work or play they light our way,
So sing in admiration.

Praised be our ocean yachtsmen,
Who brave the girdling swell.
They picked the market’s currents,
Its crests and troughs as well.
They sent the competition
Down the gurgler, if you please.
No sharks beneath the briny foam
As ravenous as these.
They’re our beloved ruling class...

Praised be our polo players,
Who, headstrong past our ken,
Combine the finest qualities
Of bloodstock and of men;
Who, leaving the Range Rover
To idle by the gate,
Gallop through the boardrooms
And seal our workday fate.
They’re our beloved ruling class...

Praised be our boutique vintners.
Yarra Glen to Limestone Coast
They declaim of fecal accents,
And blackberries, and toast;
Then leave the sunny aspect
And return to Collins Street,
With riesling on their palates,
And bullshit on their feet.
They’re our beloved ruling class...

And praised be our high-rollers,
With nerves of ice and steel,
Who stake an average fortune
On the turning of a wheel,
As if to say: “Here’s privilege
Immune to pain or loss!”
And if workers thrive, or workers starve,
They couldn’t give a toss.
They’re our beloved ruling class...

Renfrey Clarke

From Green Left Weekly, December 7, 2005.
Visit the Green Left Weekly home page.

Tools

• Bookmark This Page
• Print This Page