Betrayed Lasses and Virtue Masks

Those poor wee lasses, betrayed by the upper classes. Those who drink

from champagne flutes and rose-tinted glasses. Their wealth is glaring, fancy speakers,

they're blaring. Eardrums tearing from the noise they're declaring. They talk,

degrade, slander, and lie. Hiding behind virtue, a cunning disguise.

Stirring up rage, just to get a rise. Clear to anyone who's got eyes.

Their word salad spins, trying to hypnotize. But that twisted rhetoric will be

their demise. They claim they care, preach it loud and proud.

But when it comes to Rotherham girls, no one hears their cries.