Francis Bacon perceived that even the “naked savages” in nether parts of the world, Had a sort of spirity religion, Such is the universal tendency toward that position, But I knew a man who, after hearing of one too many “born-again” fakers and phonies, Declared that he himself was a “born-again” atheist, while he had little of the sacred monies; What first? Money. What second and third? Money. But according to the English sage, “Money is like muck, no good lest spread around,” Whereas the boodle is so poorly leveled it ain’t even funny; For instance, there comes Aaron Spelling, who, though not himself heaving and hoisting, Is erecting near Los Angeles a huge French Renaissance palace, Merely to show towards the po’, it seems, his malice, Like the other haves, toward the common worker, that renders them callous; In Beverly Hills and Pacific Palisades you will find, greed piled so high that they herald, As everyone else sees it, the Eighth and Ninth Wonders of the World, And be they like the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, they cannot last, But must subside into perdition, for they’re from the same cast; So the two townships, temples to the dollar, and “private laws,” And to the vice of opportunists’ bad taste, Must shrink and sink into the abyss, of annihilation’s waste; Money is here an idol, and gods in heaven know, That everyone needs some Whichever, however, whatever way it may come, Though pigging out in the lap of luxury, in spoliation’s sanctum sanctorum, Reeks heavily of exploitation, appropriation and peculation; The rich have so much of other men’s money, That the poor are in despair, And would certainly accept 30 silver pieces, Just so the combat seems a little more fair; A nation cannot have riches, they say, unless many menials timidly toil tediously, Yet the promised reward of heaven is a thing of the past, Good riddance for that, a hosanna that it didn’t last, It was an institution that oppressed grievously; But now the sop is, that a commoner may hit upon riches, be it never so likely, And join the privileged class, Oppressing those below, where he himself had been before, So that this social control, this bedeviling idea, Keeps the commoners in their place, To not make trouble for the nobility, the aristocrats, the patricians and the gentility, So what matters it that, we are all ostensibly children of “God’s grace”? (Als Adam grub, und Eva span, wo war denn da der Edelmann?) But when the Gotha is all forgotten, there may come the day, When there are no classes, and the people have begotten, The equality, the freedom, the bounty, and the demise of poverty, Looking backwards to class society, but with mere dismay.
John Fleming is the author of "The War of All Against All" (800-462-6420 to order).
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