Numbers,
Dips dives
Accountants thrive
On invisible forces.
And intangible measure
I suppose there is “stuff” to be had
But who accounts for stuff lost?
For those intangibles that the mass’s account for
The feeling of failure as ones job is deported?
The volume of tears produced by the children unseen?
No, but its all the ticker tape parade
For the bourgeoisie
Stakes and debts, charts,
And little flashing lights cutting from right to left.
Oh, I suppose its real.
But no more real that the acid burn with in the stomachs of their own countrymen
No more than the frantic death as the last of a species fails to find a mate.
No more than the bullet that tore a man friend in to two, for the ticker tape game
Of a few.
I can tell you this, the game with in a game,
Are several tangents from the world of your God
A far different abstract you now worship
Based on self service,
Built on the work of others
Meaningless, meaningless, are you games
selfish, selfish are your aims
Blind, blind, their just blinking names
For those who lose and those who gain
The rules, the rules, just aren’t the same.
A kid down the hole,
Who risked life for his goal
Received ten bucks
For the diamond you stole.
The woman we would not hire
For she too quickly tired
Is more fortunate than those in china
Who died in the factory fire.
For those whose children you can spoil
For you invested in pharmaceuticals and oil
I pray there be a God
For in Hell you will toil
It’s funny,
How we account for all this money
And brandish those for their sins
But when the sins account for the money
They are no longer sins.
Funny.
