Mistress Marx

Mirror, mirror on the wall

who is the fairest of them all?

"You are, Sir."

I mumble, handing Him His

eighth beer,

fumbling furiously with fear.

Christina is my name.

The mistress of a Man

who treats me with disdain.

Brought from the Philippines

via Spain,

to do both His bidding

and His kids' bed linen.

"This cheap labour is a quiet blessing!"

He raises His glass confessing.

Jenny His wife,

the love of His life,

tucks the kids in bed.

I catch the large looming silhouette

in the corner 

of His study.

It grows as I go to grab His empty glass.

He grabs my hair

and whispers with care,

"I own you"

before delivering that trademark

'Karl snarl.'

The toxic Twerp

unleashes a burp

before kicking 

the crushed cans of beer

surrounding His feet.

Capitalism has achieved quite a feat

seducing this drunk consumerist freak.

"Capitalism is crap!" He bellows.

Another shirt quotation for His socialist

bedfellows. 

Born in Trier, 

in the year 1818.

The prophet of fear

would profit from 

bourgeois privilege 

as an enlightened teen.

The 19th Century Buddha

had finally arrived to the scene.

The Prussian empire 

was set alight 

by the French fire

and that delightful three word desire,

Liberté, égalité, fraternité.

The revolution ignited the elite's biggest test. 

Aristocracy versus the rest.

The young Marx

followed His father's 

footsteps.

Law called

at Bonn University