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Synthesis/Regeneration 60   (Winter 2013)



Mr. 1%


Protester, drop that sign and let me pass.
You want to share the wealth? Iíll kick your ass.
Unless Iím richer than your wettest dream
Youíll have no more wealth than the plastic gleam
You toss when you unwrap your latest toy.
Besides, what would you do with it, punk boy?
Watch TV, drink and download videos?
A burger, a beer, a pack of Oreos,
Thatís your ambition. Iíll make you a deal,
If youíre ready to settle for whatís real.
Your thumbs are fluent with a phone, I bet.
Talking is easy work with a headset,
Or logging data in a cubicle
Will get you women by the futonful.
Not you? Thatís how itís been since the first chief
Took a few warriors and turned cattle thief.
He told his heroes as the spoils he split,
ďWhile other men hoe weeds and shovel shit,
Youíll drink beer in my stockade on the hill,
A power center built for us to fill
With all the value working fools have made
With plow, pick, hatchet, arrow, net and spade.
My might has done this. Swear yourselves my men.
Live by the knife and never toil again.Ē
The chiefs took risks that now have made your ease.
We took your jobs and shipped them overseas
So you could keep your hands clean. Men of blood
Did what it took to drag you from the mud
Against your dull will. Now weíre businessmen,
And what it takes is business acumen.
There is no ďoneĒ about the one percent.
Some keep their fingers clean living off rent,
Manipulating money, doing deals,
The hand stuck from a suit that shakes and steals.
They havenít got the guts to shake the earth
And turn it inside out for all itís worth.
Thatís what I do. I mine for coal and oil,
The wealth that lies beneath the useless soil.
Your thumbs are clean. You only flip a switch
And take advantage of what makes me rich.
From birth to deathbed you are on my dole.
You want freedom from corporate control?
Canít have it. Get your mind out of the fog.
You have the freedom of the family dog.
I own you, but I keep you safe and warm,
Pampered, well-fed, sheltered from the storm.
You think you got it tough? Turn runaway.
Bolt off into the woods and chase your prey,
Or slink back into town to dumpster-dive
When living free from master doesnít thrive.
But you know how to want more than a pet,
And I donít beat my dog when I can get
Him to do tricks for treats. Eight hours a day
You well can spare me. Recycle your pay
For luxuries unknown to olden kings.
Cause I do what it takes I pull the strings.
If this is slavery the chains are light.
Only a fool would spoil it for a fight.
Donít fuck with me. You donít know what you do.
The blow that strikes me down takes you down too.


óHenry Robertson





[5 dec 12]


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