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Poem

Oh, my name is Ian Phillips
   And I'll quickly tell the tale
      Of a few men chasing shadows
   And their wealth that flows in pails,

There isn't any reason
   That explains their boundless greed,
      But we've bought and paid for every lie
   And swallowed every seed.

These people take their living
   From we, who never knew
      That that, which they have told us
   Could be anything but true,

They sit and count their money
   In buckets piled high,
      While from the corner of their mouths
   Escapes another lie.

They stand all day in an empty field
   Watching the sun until it sets,
      Speaking with their forked tongues,
   Casting lots and placing bets:

"Five dollars, here, if my shadow
   Reaches out past younder tree!"
      "I'll put down ten!" "And so will I!"
   (For "Gimme!"is their plea).

So, they chase eachother's shadows,
   Speculating each position,
      Winning every lottery,
   For its terms are their own vollition,

Sometimes, too, they stand to benefit
   Much more if they loose,
      So every 'Great Disaster'
   Is something that they choose.

Although I speak in riddles,
   These men really do exist-
      Off of the strength of others
   These parasites subsist:

The men, whom I have so described
   With pails trailing in each hand
      Are the bankers, brokers and politicians
   Of this here ruined land!

The moral of my story is simple
   And almost funny:
      The state of our economy 
   Is just as real as money!

You can live the lies these men purport
   And hold them close to heart,
      But if you do, the future's hope
   Forever, will depart.

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