ðĨ There Is No Good Billionaire There is no good billionaire, no millionaire saint to spare. They build their thrones on the broken and poor, bleeding the masses, then stealing still more. Every coin they clutch is blood, every mansion built on mud. They sip their wine while children cry, and call it life as others die. They never earned their golden grace— just hoarded rot in a sacred place. Filth they polish, greed they bless, strutting proud in depraved excess. If they were holy, if they were true, their wealth would serve, not slaughter through. The hungry starve, the thirsty choke, while they light cigars on the lives they broke. But they choose debauchery, choose the ring, pedophile kingdoms, suffering’s king. They do not care, they never will— they buy the vote, they sign the kill. Every yacht’s a coffin that floats, every diamond is torn from throats. Every jet’s a hearse in the sky, every empire built on a lie. And listen close: they own nothing here. ...
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