A few words in ode to the upcoming republican convention, compliments a bit of insomnia and avoiding real work.
Who built that? “I built that!” They’ll all proudly say, making their way towards the Florida Bay.
(Via highways and bridges the New Deal paved, to a venue that Government funds helped to raise.)
Who built that? “I built that!” They’ll each speak in turn; heart-lifting paeans to prosperity earned.
And earned it they have, through hard work and patience. (And maybe a bit of government assistance.)
Farmers and bakers and the salt of the Earth;
they know their strong values, they know their self-worth.
They know what they built, from rooftop to foundation;
but reject that prosperity flows through the nation.
And why should a business not billowing fire pay taxes to hire more fire-fighters?
But what do they think of the worth of others;
unemployed contractors and single mothers?
The man with a cough who sleeps in a doorway,
the indebted student who just can’t make headway?
They know, they’ve been told, over and forever:
Success to the Bold
The deadweight gets severed.
If someone is suffering in hunger and fright, surely they, in some way, have too earned their plight.
Moreover they know that the freeloading masses
await, hands outstretched, to snatch up their taxes.
They know, they’ve been told, over and forever:
That there is an “Us” and then there are “Others”
A strapping young buck and a Cadillac Queen,
with refrigerators and glowing flatscreens.
No ambitions, no goals and no dreams to be seen;
no desire for freedom, just things that are free.
They know, they’ve been told, over and forever:
You have it, they don't, so you must be better
Of course voter fraud must be rampant in cities...how else to explain why they don’t like our party? The problem is complex, the solution is not; just purge urban rolls and throw out the whole lot.
Yet so much can change in the span of a day; bankruptcy, foreclosure an illness away.
The lump in the breast or a hitch in the breath may foretell desperation, destitution and death.
But, horror! Such subjects are downright impolite!
To speak of such things just isn’t right.
You might as well stand up and point and yell “Murder!”
if you speak a few words of what happened to her...
The man at the top and his blue eyed twin will stand on the stage and just grin and grin. He’ll hint the same things they’ve been saying forever: “You’re Bold and You’re Us, and frankly You’re Better.”
“You built that” he’ll roar, and the crowds will rejoice,
hearing the promise of a kindred voice.
A brother of builders, a builder of Nations,
with qualifications ensconced in his station.
But the bane he keeps hiding, the strange thing he’s found
is the true bite of Bain, whose lessons expound:
Build all you want, to the sky from the ground.
The real money is made by tearing it down.