The Capitalist's Son
I keep your time, so brief, all to myself;
It liquefied and forged in sheets of green,
And stamped with faces on historic shelf –
The marbled Fathers' perch; they claim you’re free.
Those vultures from on high look down like gods,
Upon the carcassed wastelands they have wrought.
Perhaps bemused, but more amused, by rods
of Iron that the One Percent hath bought.
The prophet John foretold in dreams our right,
We kings of sickly visage understood;
But idle lives so spent will drain ‘till Blight
Unless our fangs may sup the Worker’s blood.
I want a thing no more, to shed this curse,
But on this neck my kin to dine? Far worse.
Copyright © Robert Allen | Year Posted 2019
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