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A damaged, fragmentary satire where pleasure, guilt, money, savagery, and kneeling flash up in broken sequence.

The page reads like surviving shards from a larger denunciation of modern appetite. Even in incomplete form, its diction keeps yoking social performance to abasement, as if pleasure is inseparable from humiliation and class theater.

'Pleasure Sirs': the all-equal guilt squinted out savage, modern non-money-mad man sipping near the new throne, two question marks as the close.

The poem is a refusal of the pleasure-court frame. 'Where the bottom lip but kneels' makes the court's body the site of submission, not the petitioner's. The terminal '??' is the page's refusal to resolve; pleasure at the new throne remains in question.