At The Altar Of The Bull

When it comes to cash,

I’ve been short changed.

Invested my money, and watched it crash,

seems mighty strange;  like it’s been arranged.

I should have foresaw,

the writing on the wall,

Should have kept my money out of the banks,

thanks, but no thanks.

Give, but get nothing in return,

should give everyone cause for concern.

Hand it over to a bunch of crooks,

must be cooking the books.

Got no conscience, and sleeping well,

living large and in luxury,

Waiting for the ringing of the morning bell,

so goes the wheels of this Capitalist society.

Their turn will come around,

time to tumble down.

Crumble, they will be in shambles,

rich man, gangster he gambles.

don’t have to pay back their debt,

rewarded, a bonus they get.

At the altar of the bull they worship,

praying for that mighty blue chip.

Like the Israelites, around the golden calf,

drunk, they sing, dance and laugh.

Fortune 500, their sacred text,

the gospel of invest.

Poor man has no choice,

he can scream and shout, but he has no voice.

Work and labor to survive,

thinking one day, he to will arrive.

But you don’t have it in you to connive,

you’re cut from a different cloth;

mad men foam and froth.

Man that sweats and toils,

may be tempted by the spoils,

but he knows the price,

it’s your soul you have to sacriflce.

© 2015  Kathleen Stefani and Combing The Catacombs
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