A poem for the 99
My friend Carnegie
set me to work
and sold me some dirt.
My friend Vanderbilt
built a nice school
from which he could rule.
My friend Rockefeller
sucked the ground dry
while I looked at darkened skies.
Until my back was broken.
Then new words were spoken:
“Eight for me,
Eight for you,
And eight for the pillow too.”
Such thoughts seem so mundane.
Yet after two wars they reigned
until insanity turned greed into virtue.
Now your eights’ are eleven,
the pillow has less than seven
and hunger consumes the six
You force me to look for prey.
And I found it looking at a Wall.