Ballad of the Class War

This is a bad marriage, the posh
and the poor. One takes the
bed, the other the floor. Tethered
by seduction, threats and lies, it’s
a wonder they’re still together.

One collects the money, the other
makes the bed. One wipes his chin
and belches, the other’s barely fed.
The voice of one’s an order, the
other, an addled wreck. One
demands “cash only,” the other’s
paid by check.

All the coins rise like the bubbles
in champagne. Try to hold them
down. They disappear in spite
of what’s been said. One man
spent his life to save them. Now,
like B-movie undead, they claw
their way out of the ground.

The boss is an octopus. One
arm holds a paycheck, the other
is in your pocket. We’re told to
lock it up. We’re told to burn it
at the mall. Good advice when
the TV turns practical and takes
a break from shouting.

In the middle of all the canned
hysterics, car crashes, planned
weeping, imploding casinos,
boasting and whining and screaming
violence, some can afford to wall
themselves in silence.

The sum of all our nickels is
gigantic. The idea of all our
brains together makes them
frantic. We’ll play nice, alone. We
won’t dispute the price. We won’t
haggle. We know nothing’s free.
Our measly bit falls in the pot.
It’s like pissing in the sea.

Until there’s no more to
be found, the hours tick away.
Half the day’s a slug, the other
half a bee. Like everything else,
our time’s divided: on the clock
and “free.”

Even good and evil are relatively
measured. According to official
morality, we’re supposed to sin
selectively. We’re quiet about
meetings in the obscure motel.
But burning down the bank is a
bus ride to hell.