What is their end game?

What is their end game?

Whether they lean to the left or the right, whether they are secular or religious, capitalist or socialist; whether they advocate for control or anarchy, what is their end game?


Sixteen seats surround a table of oak, crystal decanters accompany like fashioned glass.
Bone china grails for the finest of teas and quills of Mont Blanc for a touch of class.
Fine linen napkins under crisp Cuban cigars, encased in silver, shimmer under shards
of cut glass chandelier suspended above a round table for kings.

Five Saville-clad bankers take their seats; on laps rest fat bellies, full of depositor’s meats.
Two media moguls greet them with familiar shakes and settle adjacent to fevered debate
concerning their millions in unreachable havens, reality shows and product placements.
Seven captains of industry march in like dwarves, one after another smiling at mogul-whores.
The paper Baron makes an entrance to eyes filled with distaste, he swaggers to his place.
At last comes the Minister, he swims in a sea of platitudes and offers of glad hands.
He receives them as offerings from serfs to the King of the Land; a tithe for his racket,
protection and license, to quaff from the electorate with legality to back it.

The bankers, the moguls, the captains and the Baron, silence their chatter to the Minister’s
command; he surveys his domain and readies his sermon with the raised palm of his hand.
His intention is clear, he seeks to remain in perpetual office, year after year after year.
Manufacturing a country of dependable proles, who swim obediently in quadrennial shoals
to polling stations and vote for his name and feed their appetite for as long as they want.
How can this be? they all chant in accord, why would they conform? The Minister smiles,
he knows their nature, the mindless masses, the apathetic swarm. Be seated, drink and eat,
my lips to your ears for I guarantee power and wealth for innumerable years.

First to the captains, he says with aplomb, my people must spend until kingdom has come.
So go forth and invent, fabricate and build, flood the market with all manner of shiny new things.
The captains harrumphed, quoting Keynesian lore, of market forces, supply and demand.
Falling prices and profits as former trumps latter, how can this not matter?
The Minister grins as he listens to their chatter, sipping his tea like the irrational Hatter.
Keep plying your trade at the highest of cost, demand shall not falter, worry not for your margin,
we shall manufacture demand and they shall pay whatever you are charging.
We must nurture their greed, give them reason to want and live far beyond their means,
hypnotise the masses, show them possibilities of living a life of their dreams.
Now he turns to the moguls of media, those movers and shapers of thrift.
Purveyors of unreachable heights, lives of the rich and the famous, avaricious sights.
The Minister strokes the phallus of the mogul group vanity; a favour for unanimity.
Fill their TVs with images of wealth and material, celebrity and gossip and new shiny things.
No future in Maths, Lit or Science, learn to dance and to sing.
Be like the famous, wear designer made clothes, become property magnets and drive your own Rolls.
Have it all now, must haves, do not wait, your friends have it too, don’t leave it too late.
Buy now, pay later, take years to repay, sales upon sales endure day after day.
The moguls turn to captains and seek their advice, could they generate sales and pay to advertise
their wares if the masses cannot pay for their wont; the Minister objects and is adamant.
The limit of their greed shall not be defined by their wallets, let them borrow what they lack
and watch as they spend and consume and feed their fat gullets.

And at last the fat bankers grunt with cautionary squeals, they think of defaulting borrowers,
repossessing homes and Royce wheels. Disposable income cannot sustain such a burden.
The banks stand to make losses, curb the bonuses of bosses if they agree to such plans.
The Minister calms the fat lenders with grace, Bank of England, he says is now at his behest
and shall offer the lowest rates of interest, allowing the bankers to extend credit at will.
Until? say the bankers, decades shall pass until we see our money back in our hands.
The Minister offers deregulated free range, to sell bundles of debt on the financial exchange,
so they can keep lending, realising current returns, with scant regard for a public that turns
into a Nation of payers, monthly interest and charges are the order of the day.

And so the Minister commits his grand plan, to fat felines whose coffers no longer withstand,
further assaults of power and wealth, yet they drool for the promise of more and more.
Listen well, it is really quite simple, when the greed of the mob is perpetually ample.
When credit is cheap, they spend without fear and work their fingers to bone so they can endear
themselves to those images the moguls entice, while moguls grow fat on the advertising vice
paid for by the captains whose industry thrives, profits amassed as in nectar-filled hives.
And this government rakes taxes from employer and staff, but wait there is more, this is just half
of the story, I see our Baron lacks joy, he feels surplus to the machinations of our ploy.

Alas you are mistaken, your part is essential, you must to their ears be the truth deferential.
Paint a picture of lies to distract and misinform, your job is to ensure that they all conform
to an image of prosperity and success, though into a pit of debt they regress.
To what end? asks the Baron, one day they will rise, against a realisation of their demise.
Tax credits and subsidies, benefits and welfare; I’ll give them these crutches like crosses to bear.
Dependent on me shall the masses become, glorifying my alms shall be your remit,
teach them to subjugate their lives, to the man who shall keep the wolves from their door.
Those collectors of debt looking to score, by repossessing every last inch of their spoils,
until their only recourse will be to rely, on my hand outs and so they must always comply.

To my law and whilst we siphon all the money we want, they will keep me in power,
let me be blunt, we cannot allow the electorate to decide who shall govern, we can’t punt
on their whims, we must manufacture an electorate that cannot afford to dissent.
And you all know that they will offer their quiet obedience, as shall you my audience.
For this is the way we shall remain, in perpetual power in this, our Great Britain.