The Profit Song

Like a soiled and sullied uncrowned king
The God of profit taints everything.
As a wasted Eden descends to ire
And man’s great promise is cast to fire.

Like the famine child with extant stare,
The feeble gaze of man’s despair,
As progress blooms with perfidious ease
Trailing its wake, the progress disease.

Where are we heading if we leave behind
The remnant tail of all mankind?
And how will we mark the day we arrive
With the wealthy living while the rest survive?

A highway adorned with lanes of gold,
The dystopian journey of the privileged fold.
To the gated Utopia that readies itself
For progress people with pillaged wealth.

No heaven resembles this hellish design,
No Gods within this vulgar shrine,
But contrived division of the common race.
Accept your lot, and know your place.

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