Going Going ...Sold

Guy Smiley Grins ooze with confidence and cowboy swagger. Paunch bellies clad in their golf-club friendly attire come shaking hands and talking big, spreading their disease on rotting shallow breaths. The boys with their souls on sale for the low low price of approval follow the bellowing blow-hards, like rats to the pipe.

Your soul is in the sewer, boy, your mind is out to lunch.
They came to find some lackeys and you beat them to the punch.
Ready to sell your loved ones short for 30 pieces of pride,
you leapt into the mire and put “priorities” aside.
Used to wear the pants in your castle, but now only dockers'll do,
so you live in a shallow cave, nibbling scraps as they feed on you.
How’s it gonna wind up, boy? What does it amount to in the end,
when you come to the last of your days, your life yet to begin?
Ask the bright-toothed boasters, then, for the reason you're alive,
after you’ve traded in all your living for fancier means to survive.