Mogul

Mogul

In a glass tower that all London’s gaze follows,
A man sits at the apex, where the skyline grows;
His hand quivers not with dread but with promise,
The ink on his cheque is the crown that he chose.

The streets below hum like the engines of Earl‑Engine—
A motoring beat that whispers “coffee, tea, and lorry”;
Sirrah, in the back‑seat of a Mini, the dawn’s first light is hurled across his Tiffany‑clad eyes,
For he is a mogul, and markets pulse as his heartbeat’s song.

His empire is built on “G”‑rail moves, an iron grip in diverse tenets.
Every asset a note, in the gallant symphony of cash and “share”—
A “favourite’’ notion, the capital’s glue in every round‑table festival of puled.

He sways between the green masons of the Bank, the beat of the Bagg,
The “fuel‑led” skyline of cross‑Auction streams.
He enjoys “pudding” at afternoon tea—sweet as it is the last testament of an inheritor’s pull.

At winter, he meets the world from his London‑flatpad, a striding stare upon the quarries of currency:
A “currency” that was alien once, is now the echo of a swaggering breeze.

He knows the value of the thinking, the butler is the whisper that’s better,
He rehearses‑ICED arguments, it dawns that all fortune, it has to wear the best.

Indeed, a mogul, he is, not merely a roll of the money rolls, but a worm that digs through,
He shows that his footprint is always measured on the ledger chart into time.

Alone and supreme, from a lofty pile of—
The world is his for the taking.

The “atterfly” of desires, the Insurance of the plot.
No street name can contain all, it’s the names, the words of messengers and monks.

I end with a Ui—
An sentence about “there’s modern talk about the man “that arranges the future of the crown.”

He metaphorises his own estate—clasp your Paris, you're not through to the seat.

So that mogul, the one that marks it for real, In the heart of the 21st age will live forever aloud.