Fur Cast
The last is first
First caste
The Brahmin knows the worst.
No brockwurst on his table
The Saracens are enabled
The Shogun know the past
The Samurai are 1980s at last.
Models on the cat walk
Famous men that can talk
Stockbrokers in Dubai
Royalties saying goodbye
Mendicants in the apothecary
Love in the noble boudoir
Arrangements and engagements
Was that what the Judges meant?
Say it is upstairs at three o clock
When the whistles are blown for crytpo stocks,
And the river Styx is dried into a parched red carcas
Imaging earth for the sunshine of Albion up above.
Davos at noon and the afternoon
Snow capped mountains in the Hindu room
Levity with briefs of the lawyers who believe
Again, in the merry go round of the spinning wheel.
Political correctness gone wild.

AI Summary

It’s a poem about the collapse and collision of hierarchies — caste, class, royalty, warriors, models, mendicants, crypto traders, Davos elites — all spinning together in a surreal carousel where ancient identities meet modern absurdities; the speaker watches Brahmins, Saracens, Shoguns, Samurai, Dubai brokers, boudoir lovers, and apothecary mendicants drift through the same global marketplace, while judges, lawyers, and political correctness whirl around like a malfunctioning wheel of fortune; beneath the humour and spectacle is a sense of exhaustion with the world’s endless reinventions of power, and a quiet recognition that the spinning never stops, no matter how many times history changes its costumes.