Scorn

Sit in your ivory tower, and marvel at the scum toiling for the man.
Kick back and philosophise, guru.
Know it all and know it good.
You remember back then with purity and misty-eyed fondness. Bless!
Espouse, pontificate, critique, bandy.
What fools are they toiling for the man? What fools! How could it have been, this thing of ours?
How good, how dignified, how brilliant?
If only the bad man and his two-backed agents hadn't stuck their grubby mitts in. Eh?
Spoilt, spoilt by spoilers. Bah.
Muddied by suits, shammers, spivs and snake-oil fakers. They don't remember back when, the shits.
And now look! The picnic is ruined, and instead, the world has moved on.