Behold the felling of an ivory tower.
I am vengeful, as the old testament god,
Existing in resistance to closed doors,
To towers and plinths and platters,
Gold, old, white, sickly and most fanciful,
Baiting, faking, making the machine hum,
Sums untold, exchanging false hope,
For labor and wager, no nurture;
It’s business, business, nothing personal,
That remorseless adage that we’re told, sold
Like slaves, to wreck hands, wet brows
With broken dreams, crooked necks;
Kept outside like hungry, low-backed strays
And I do not pray; instead I swear gracefully
To fell towers like lofty, angry giants
Deep within the pillage, eating the rich
Like bold savages, salting once plentiful land.