The hands that hold the purses write the script
And the hands of their minions are up the bums of
exclusive, custom-designed puppets
who shriek their lies in terror.
Cute little wife you’ve got there, alone at your private address in your quiet little town…
Just say the words, son, and it will all go well for you.
Sow fear, sow filth, sow failure
Into the souls of those whose lives are spent –
Quite literally –
Doing what they’re told.
You love your kids, don’t you?
How sad if anything bad befell them.
Maybe work two jobs? Or, perhaps even three?
You go, girl!
You so strong!
Feed your precious children
On food designed to make them sick…
What’s the point of living longer anyway?
A thousand years of usuary comes down to
We built the pyramids
The seven wonders of the world
Streets and buildings where you scheme.
We worked the mines, the sweatshops, crippled ourselves
at retail jobs where we earned enough to buy one cup of coffee per hour.
We waged your wars and died in droves
Lost pieces of our flesh and minds
To come home to a medal and paper poppies.
We face our own deaths knowing
In our guts, in our hearts and souls
That this is NOT
The way it’s meant to be.
To you – the hands that hold the purse strings,
The purses that contain all that we’ve slaved for –
We are expendable and have become
Yet you are vulnerable in your greed
And we deserve far more
Than mass extinction.