I want to write a long, epic protest poem
About evil bankers and greed
Destroying a hell of a lot more than the economy,
Laughing their way to the bank,
Except I’m sure they’re going to the bank,
But they’re probably not laughing.
They’re probably wringing their hands
With fear and worry they haven’t got enough,
Worried they’ve got a lot of disgruntled employees
On their hands, worried that things will get out of control,
So they're scheming, dreaming of the old days
When for a few bucks you could get the
Cops to keep the trouble makers in line,
Or maybe even farther back
When you could just order the sheriff and his men
To round up the ringleaders and string them up
Or storm their rickety barricades, bayonets drawn,
Or bludgeon the rabble even farther back
When they knew their place
And you could cut them down for looking you in the eye
And you didn’t even have to worry
Because you were safe behind your high walls
And the palace guards kept the riff-raff out.
And they dream of history repeating itself,
A history rife with revolution
And the overthrow of oppressors
Down through the ages,
And how the ruling class fares
In times such as these when the breaking point is reached
And the masses have had enough
And the strategy of pitting one against the other
Is recognized and falls apart and they rise together
And the poor little rich people alone behind their walls
Realize too late, perhaps they
Should have done things a little different.
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