The deserving rich

Who needs our protection more? A billionaire, or, perhaps, the chaps who fought in his name, but were never the same when they came home? Who roam the streets at night, seeking respite from their never-ending mental war?

Who needs your affection more? A man with six castles or could it be the elderly living alone in a bungalow, whose spouse died many years ago, and days pass without smiles or chat or laughter – just the neighbour’s cat, who ever visits them for tea?

And where are taxes better spent? On rich folk who live life rent-free, literally higher than a Lord? Or a youth who’s never been adored, not even by his own mum, who’s been kicked out, thrown out, a bum, who sees no hope and has no plan? On the cusp, becoming a man, who still could be saved if help was sent?

I can’t pretend to understand the many ties that bind a land, unite us, build society. Love each other. Family. If you need tradition, flags, a crown, who am I to put you down?

But, I confess, I can’t see how it helps to try to make me bow to someone who surely knows, deep down, he’s no more deserving of wearing a crown than any single one of us?

Yet, there he sits, enthroned with fuss by those who’ve done well, risen high, from learning to turn their tight-shut eye to all that really isn’t fair

About this land

This crown

This chair

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