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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required I passed on the street I lived once, and saw the shame Of history. The promise claimed by a second chance Of hard work and misery, devastated by brinksters' game: A stealth control of economy. Here a little light that lanced The pupil of the eyes, pierced like a dagger in the heart Here my house stood foreclosed. And on the wind the word Was blame: we bought what we could not afford, Now the people are victims twice, and we Saddled with blame, find here no place for mercy. A bitter gall of clever lies tearing us once more apart Only the serpent streams here, the grim grass grave heart Where giant trees suck water from the empty soil, and make Great canopies, but we find no rest. For in these branches The same snake drives little birds from their nest. Take A picture here, where Eden turns to wilderness; traunches Of golden sunlight poured upon dead bush and leaves Look not for the medicinal herbs choked by barren trees, No sprinkler runs, no pompous cougar fawns, truth grieves Alone. The wasting rich pay less and gets more; he pleas For more where the poor sweats still. A house to live Is now conceived above our due deserve and means. O buildings gaped your swinging doors, for pensive Blows the wind: I pray this debt forgive, let creditor cleans The slate for all, so from a level field we start again. The house was honest sweat, and love's fair dream The deal they sold me was just a rotten scheme For ambition shackled us with an existential chain And we are left with nothing now but promises vain And the tongue of politics whipping our backs again Yet in this foreclosure's spate we only ask to work now There is no milk to come by killing us, the economy's cow O let there be compassion where greed betrayed good men Or the shadow that falls on barren walls will bring a bitter end.
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