"Pardon me, Sir..." -Marie Antoinette [to her executioner's foot]*

One day the overprivileged
will be trampled underfoot
by the downtrodden.

One day the poor
will have nothing left to eat,
but the rich.

One day the homeless
will have nowhere left to sleep,
but your new marble countertops.

One day malaria
will have nowhere left to spread,
but your country club pool.

One day wars
will have nowhere to be fought,
but your well-manicured lawns,

And there will be
no one left to fight them,
but your well-manicured daughters.

One day the Bourgeoisie
will awaken to find
the Workers scaling their wrought-iron gates,

And there will be no
turning us away
like petty solicitors-

For we have a debt
to collect,
and we will accept
nothing less
than The Merchant of Venice’s
request:
a pound of well-fed flesh…

And we will rejoice,
as we warm our frost-bitten fingertips,
on the smoldering remains of your estates.

And we will rejoice,
as we dance beneath your majestic maples,
composing eulogies for the Good Ole Days of the Good Ole Boys…

"History doesn't repeat itself...but it does rhyme." -Mark Twain*

Oh, America!

You didn’t stand a chance.

What, with a Mother so gluttonous
that the sun never set on her,

With a Father so shameless
that his name became synonymous with guilt,

The prodigal sheep
couldn’t stray too far.

In New World tantrums
you brewed Earl Grey bays,

You built your houses
on foundations of graves,

You pursued your happiness
through the sweat of slaves,

Behind white-picket fences
you dreamt away decades…

And then you were stirred,
by a bird through your window,
to find no one at your wake.