This wealth, all to me, is owed,
The last heir of Hawk's Hood Hall,
For none other, but I, was respectively
Birthed by the most noble of them all.
And yet the estate is in a danger,
I may not receive it anymore,
For Mammon has come upon the farmhands,
And they're uprising a civil war.
The new rich, the rising rich
Labourers invade this space!
Robbing the fathers who awarded them first,
A meagre job in this place.
Alas, fools have faith in being on par,
With blood lines, not the same!
O beauteous villas, thou shalt crumble,
To the peasants of filth and waste.
Ye parlour trodden by contamination,
And by rough and begrimed hands.
The suite shall become a fusion of stenches,
From a mule to the lowest of Man.
Pigs will hire butter-fingered maids,
As clueless as they are cloddish,
Who will wear the walls and bleach the stone,
And spoil the divine polish.
Where goes our economy?
Fallen, a black market, I say.
The decay of the English Empire,
Shall commence itself today.
The eclipse has begun for the noble,
For keep Hawk's Hood, I do what I must.
The light is steadily fading as,
Mammon has come upon us.
YOU ARE READING
Melancholia: A Choice
PoesíaMelancholia: A Choice is a suite of poems which is based around Sigmund Freud’s theory on Mourning and Melancholia, and explores the responses to Melancholia. This was written and submitted for the 2015 HSC (Higher School Certificate) English Exten...
