Praise Of The Wealthy Poem by Vic Postnikov

Let me warn you before we start,
That we're miles and miles apart,
That I rank among rabble and poor,
That my place in the world is pure:

Scanty tables of ugly and crippled
Crushed by over-indulgence grip…
And, therefore, from the highest belfry
I declare: I do love the wealthy!

For their rotten and shaky roots,
That corrupt from the cradlehoods,
For their vacant habit of pocket,
For their constant shift of the socket.

For the humblest request from their lip,
That is served as a loudest rip,
And because they won't see Paradise,
And because they don't look in the eyes.

For their secrets, their courier slaves!
For the errands that always paid!
For the nights and pleasures enforced,
For the kisses and drinks endorsed!

For the boring accounts and yawns
And their golden watches and lawns,
And because they won't buy me, insolent,
I confess: I love the indolent!

And despite their clean shaven face,
Satiety, drinkety, squander race -
For their sudden and beaten howl,
As if cast from a dog's hole.

Always doubtful whether a zero in place,
Or the scales are displaced...
And for their - sometimes - grim mood,
And their uttermost orphanhood!

There' s a foolish story I know
‘bout the camels and a needle's hole.
For their look, perplexedly stared,
Apologetic and scared,

"I'd lend you if could, but I should… ",
For their lips immobile with greed,
Take my word: I love this breed!

1922, Marina Tsetaeva