Portly British banker, sitting at his console,
Dealing in the Caymans on his private line,
Then dining at the Guildhall, chatting up the Minister,
Rounding off the banquet with a sweet white wine.

Wily Saudi princeling, toying with his prayer beads,
Manipulating yet again the price of oil,
Then taking flight to Moscow, fixing up an arms deal,
Flying back the same day to his native soil.

Weary Congolese girl, cradling her baby,
Queueing in the compound for a bag of maize,
Then searching for her sister, her father and her uncle –
Just as she has done for a hundred days.