A Poem on the Widening Wealth Gap

Kings and Gods


Worthless creatures.

They reap

The rewards of the poor man’s

Labor.  Yet,

They refuse to rule, rather

They grow fat in their palaces,

Golden and gilded, whilst

The paupers prostitute themselves

Mind, body, and soul,

All for a few nickels

And a grimy dime.

Still, we press on,


-could you call our suffering living?

More like dying, our very being tortured

And ripped asunder.  The world is

But a cruel mummer,

Forever twisting the knife

In our gut, with a great, sadistic,

And inhuman


Yet even as we die,

Our Kings grow fatter still;

Their palaces,

Larger and more gaudy.

Whilst our nickels and dimes

Barely fill cups, their treasuries

Spawn legion upon legion

Of golden soldiers with which

Our Kings use to take hostage

Our tribunes- Our very voice!

They slit the throats

Of the uncorrupted, their

Blackened blood sinking in, staining,

And vitiating

The wood and stone

From which our civilization

Was built.

And we poor souls weep,

For we can do naught but

Shrivel and shrink and flake

In the nuclear radiance

Of their power.  The time for

Resistance has long since past.

For you cannot fight a god,

And that is what our Kings have become:



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