Photo by Ryan Morrill and provided courtesy of The SandPaper
Back to the time of kings,
Where the lower classes were told,
“Let them eat cake!”
But our cakes have become,
Strangely composed Twinkies and Little Debs.
And between our plowing the fields (and selling imported goods)
And asking, “Who will buy my sweet red roses?”
We have found our humble abodes becoming humbler, smaller, shrinking,
Our pennies buying less.
And the gilded age returns,
But so busy by blaming the peasants for their poverty…
No one noticed.
What does this poem mean to you? Please comment below.
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