Apparently this might have been created recently, even though the phrase goes back at least a few hundred years. Here’s a transcription of the one I was talking about though:

“We are starving. There is no more bread, and we have nothing to eat.”

The rich man said,

“Not my problem you don’t work for your bread,”

as if he did not snatch away the grain by his own greedy hands and create filling bread for his own overflowing mouth.

The poor cried,

“We are dying. There is no more medicine, and we’re all ill.”

The rich man said,

“Not my problem you don’t take care of yourselves,”

as if he did not buy all the medicine and raise prices so high

the gods themselves would not

be able to reach.

The poor people

stopped crying,

and the rich man was satisfied…

Until they came knocking at his door one night;

their faces were sunken,

their flesh decaying,

their eyes sightless.

They were monsters

of the rich man’s

own making.

As they devoured his flesh,

the rich man cried,

“Please, spare me!”

The ravenous zombies said,

“Not our fault

you fattened yourself

for slaughter.”