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In his office high above Wall Street, he feels like Mister Big.

A Master of the Universe in his own mind, he’s the vile Plunderpig.

    He stands far to the right of even the most dedicated Whig.

    He’s a radical Monarchist who would love to be called King Plunderpig.

The most expensive wines are the only ones he will deign to swig.

Only the best of everything is good enough for Plunderpig.

    Demands for increased pay and benefits make his patience snap like a twig.

    Yes, nobody despises and detests the workers like greedy Plunderpig.

He spends his money on what’s important: there’s no election he can’t rig.

Several government officials are the personal property of sneaky Plunderpig.

    He honks up Christian morality: he can seem like quite the prig.

    But Christ Himself would be nauseated by the hypocrisy of Plunderpig.

About any notion of fairness and compassion he just doesn’t give a fig.

Social Darwinism is the guiding doctrine of self-absorbed Plunderpig.

    We’re eager to be rid of him: his grave we would gladly dig.

    Now let the Angel of Death come and take away Plunderpig.

We’ll put him deep in the cold, hard ground and on that spot we’ll dance a jig.

Then we’ll make a public urinal of the grave of Plunderpig.


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