Of Insects and Entrepreneurs
Don't call me dear. Just let me stew.
The wrongness of this ruined world
Makes me want to be alone. I'm done
With all the rednecks here. I'm
Disinclined to wave the flag, to
Thank my masters for my pittance,
Bow and scrape, and bray that this,
The land of fat and stupid stooges,
Represents some sort of model
Skinny peasants ought to try to
Emulate. Let them come here
To open crappy taco stands,
And join the frenzied, sharky
Feeders, fighting for another
Buck, a sordid sort of compensation
For the lives that they gave up.
I feel as if I'm going to vomit.
This is our America: a land
Of morons making money,
Left alone and dreaming,
Without reason, that they'll
Top the heap, and, when they
Do, all will be well, a starlet
On a flabby arm, a fancy car,
A lovely lawn, a shallow
Sense of satisfaction, known
To those who know no more.
But most will writhe in lower
Places, shouting to the ones
At home that life is good.
It must be good because this
Is America, and, surely, only
Someone churlish, someone
Stewing, such as me, would
Dare to claim that grubbing
After money isn't only wrong.
It's not much of a dream.
Comments about this poem (Of Insects and Entrepreneurs by Lawrence Beck )
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