Since this is about a few,
from the righteous judge,
to the green mullah,
with supreme attached 
to the title of them,
deciding for everyone 
what colour pants 
should be worn to work
while they cheat their way
to their Pelikan pen,
which incidentally
doesn’t jot little poems
for a reduced set of eyes,
I should relate a few facts
about where I met their kind.
At some point I ended up,
in the vacuum that I grew in
of being mostly alone
and reading away in a house
too big for the four of us,
at the elite school of the land.
I was utterly unprepared
for the Darwinian atmosphere,
the complicated games
a lot of time can create.
You think a rich boy free,
but there is a structure
to the family’s purse string.
The father, the father’s mother,
the great philanthroper.
Then there is the philosophy,
the weigh of what you will be,
the knowledge that,
in an off-white opulence
you still impress them all.
Instead of bonding, fear,
measuring, constant,
of the house, cars, girlfriends
in their couture dress
walking down the spire.
The invitation to the pool,
the weekend getaway,
the drive in the open air.
Is it too much then?
For a favour later on?
When you sit down one day
behind the mahogany desk
and wipe out with a stroke
a delicate specie, because,
finally, you have become.