Earth has not anything to show more crass:
Dullards rebuilt this mess with Duplo blocks,
Each twisted City skyscraper which mocks,
With ribs of steel and lungs of clouded glass,
Dissent from claims, that where there’s muck, there’s brass,
Where psychopaths sell other psychos stocks
In spires designed by algorithms, a pox
That scars our cityscape, retold as farce,
And Crows’ nests for the 27 Club -
And not those rock stars who od’d that age,
But 27 billionaires who rub
Soft hands while drooling like a coprophage
And own HALF the World’s wealth. Beelzebub
Now glides between the towers, just to enrage.