The Bobos never man the barricades or burn the town.

They’re unimpressed by crowds that weaken one’s identity.

The very verb ‘to man’ offends their feminist vocabulary.

What matters more, to them, is ridding us of fossil fuels,

Wicked oil wells, pits and chimneys belching smoke

That casts its omnipresence over second homes in Tuscany.

The Bobos set up N.G.O.s to rescue baby polar

Bears from Alaskan paedophiles with kinks concerning fur.

They want to help their children transition from their genitals

To vegetables: that’s liberal, that’s caring, that’s aware.

Swastikas just photo-shopped onto Hebrew graves –

What a conspiratorial thought! Think it, you’re a Nazi.

The Bobos shudder. What they feel intensely must be true.

All their dinner-party buddies feel those feelings too.

Art’s for Grace, ten minutes worth, then proceed to property.

The Gilets Jaunes are on their own, as frankly unimpressed

By what enlightened Bobos bleat – who always know what’s best

For them’s a treat for all of us – those crowds are just… the rest.

Bohos are bourgeois bohemians – Macron is their president.