We all need to make a living, but claiming that won't suffice, When the wealthy have all the money, and you in their vice; "You've got to earn it, work for it," they say, But the economy offers no good jobs, And I didn't create that institution anyway; I'm not really unemployed, and I'm not idle, But they tell all the idle, except the idle rich, That you're flirting with the devil; What does success mean? Who are successful, and who the failures? It seems to depend on the neighborhood--big houses for the wealthy, And servants to boot, While in the workers' district the homes are crowded and mean, And that comes down to the problem's root; What is it to be poor? But to have no riches, like the wealthy with more; So success, it's plain to see, Is nailed to the dollar as firm as can be; But some inherit it, and they love not to mention that, Whereas it is actually so relevant, That one may smell a rat; Also, there are others like mean jokers, Who sit on corporate boards, And are condign to assign to themselves huge rewards! Thank the Lord, or pagan gods, For whatever little you have or can save, Cultivate virtue and enjoy your meager goods, As even several gods have lived in the woods, And in this way the commoners are made to behave; "Money doesn't make you happy," just play the role of your social station, And groan and sweat, work all week long, If you can but live with that rationalization; There's consensus, you see, about to have or have no money, But in reality some live, as the pencil of the Holy Ghost put it, "In sudore vultus alieni," Additionally the truth is some people live, though not working, In the sweat of other men's brows, they spend and consume, Their own chores shirking; Hence we are told, if a man's fortune be from oro negro or gold, It doesn't matter, "more power to 'em," For hauling in, somehow, the former or the latter; But I suspect, and want to make clear, That we all have to get some simolean willy-nilly, Not in the manner of John D. the First or Simon Legree, But, as the coppers say, "civil like," cooperatively, Nevertheless, inheritance takes constantly far more than its fair share.
John Flemming contributed this poem to PRAVDA.Ru
John Fleming is a writer and author of the book The War of All Against All.