Here's what's acknowledged by competent thinkers
while most find more comfort with eyes behind blinkers:
The gold rush is ending and here's what that bids;
six out of seven are hitting the skids.
So, who are the six who are filling these slots?
We could be magnanimous, simply draw lots,
which though it possesses a civilized sound,
ain't how it happens so far as we've found.
Maybe the rich folk who caused it should pay;
maybe the poor simply get in the way.
History shows us how we'll play the game;
we'll find ourselves someone who isn't the same,
someone to hang it on, someone to blame,
someone we don't like the sound of their name,
someone for whom some resentment has grown,
one with possessions you might like to own,
someone who came from a faraway place,
someone you don't have to look in the face.
There's times for survival and times to be fair;
unless you're the chosen you won't have a prayer,
you and your family just boils to lance.
Allow me to send my regrets in advance.