We shall keep the poor poor.

We shall be on them like

a master’s whip on the backs

of slaves; but they will not

know us: we are too far and

too near. We shall use the

patois of patriotism to patronize

them. We shall hide behind our

flags while we hold only one pole.

We shall have the poor fight our

wars for us, and die for us; and

before they die, they will **** for

us, we hope, enough. In peace,

we shall piecemeal them and serve

them meals made of toxins and tallow.

For their labor, we shall pay them

slave wages;  and all that we give,

we shall take back, and more, by

monumental scandals that subside

like day’s sun at eventide. We shall

be clever, as ever, circumspect and

surreptitious at all times. We shall

keep them deluded with the verisimilitude

of hope, but undermine always its

being. We shall infuse their lives

with fear and hate, playing one

race against another, one religion

against a brother’s. Disaffection is

our key; but we must modulate our

efforts deftly, so the poor remain

frightened and angered, and always

blind and deaf and divided. And if,

perchance, one foments, we shall

seize the moment and drop his head

into his hands, even as he speaks.

This internecine brew we pour, there-

fore, into the poor to keep them drunk

with enmity and incapacitation. Ah,

eternal anticipation! Bottoms up,

old chaps! We, those who rule,

shall have them always in our laps.

We are, as it were, their salvation.


TOD HOWARD HAWKS