In Britain’s most prestigious institutions,
Taught by men pre-eminent in their fields,
Fine words, but deeds fit only for ablutions
Is all wealth, honour and privilege yields.
Role playing games and suffering in gaol,
Refusing to face unremitting facts,
Prison widow weeping to no avail;
A litany of pointless, futile acts.
And when it’s over, eight, nine, ten years older,
With honour lost, convicted in disgrace,
The flame dies and the embers cease to smoulder,
Mark of shame on the Bumiputra race.
Such are the vile rewards of graft and pelf,
But pity none whose victim is himself.
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