Atop the hill the fat cats sit

on beds of invisibills.

the rats all race on slopes beneath them

buried faces in their burrows

dirt and grime caked in their claws.

their burrows loaned not owned

lest they serve their lengthy sentence

chasing imaginary sense

not so common for the common

but all hoarded by the purring.

blind compliance over time hath but oiled the machine

the rats on wheels, spinning

gears feeding feline greed.

their labour barely clothe them

but dress the cat in vest or suit

the off-cut rags made flags to wave

or burn

or blindfolds extra tightened.

do you listen to the meow, do ya

silly little rat

that wills you each to eat each other?

brain lead zombies sleeping

wake up

its time to trim the fat.