Oh God, I prithee... Options

[*CrackedRearView*]

Dear, sweet irony, I call thee by name. Wherefore dost thou shame our race so?

Wherefore dost a filthy peasant, as this world would have it, inundated in a life of inescapable poverty, saturated in ordure and smut fill the same grave as the heralded icon, drenched in verdant money -- nurture the same earth -- fertilize the same pansies?

And wherefore, oh irony, dost that peasant kiss the feet of the rich man for a morsel of bread on this forsaken planet?

Oh God, Ye who joins these two skulls in death, Ye who prepares a place for the filthy next to the clean,

I prithee, create such a situation, in life, in good faith, on this sinking ship of a society, ere we perish.