Politely sipping pinky-tea
Extended with unconscious pride
Fine-boned fingers feather light
Touch the rose-patterned china
Silver in the grains of white
Crystals poured to sweetly dissolve
Tempering the bitterness of tongues
With little better chatter
Than swordplay of the social kind
And idle commentary on the faults of life
Blood thinned by repeating circles
Keeping out the working man
Strong in his crude striving
The top have been refined
With their blood poured through the strainer
And their dogs insipid idiocy
And their bread devoid of grain or flavour
Colourless and white as the sugar
In the bowl with the silver spoon
Granulated fine and pure.
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