Song for a Revolution: Advanced Inequalities
Get a job, stop cluttering, littering up this street
Cried the bankers, traders, supply side down-tricklers
While they downsized, outsourced, laid off, pink slipped
Teachers, carpenters, baggage handlers, clerks, mothers,
Sisters, brothers, and fathers who fought in their wars.
You’ve got no voice. No one hears what you say.
We have the power, the money,
No point in fighting when you need the DJIA.
Go home now, while you still have one.
Crumbs for your tables, meager meats for your stew,
Praise God, thank your mortgage bankers
We’ve left remnants of that dream
To trickle slowly down to you.
Get off our nice streets now
‘fore the cops take you in.
Protesting our wealth will earn you
Just the just wages of sin.
You have no place here,
On this street, called the Wall.
Close to that harbor, with a great Lady, who calls
For tired, huddled masses, yearning to breathe freeFor you’ll be arrested if you march on our street.