Shout down the sky: The Corporate Cats

A victim shoots; a victim dies; a victim's, victim's, victim cries

while the Corporate Cats wring the waste from the soft under gut,

spilling human lives into the streets, and into despair.

There are many of us drowning in sorrow of poverty,

looking up at our captor, we see a calculator, punching numbers

Our Brothers and Sisters don't dare stop moving,

preferring a small bit of comfort to a dissident's objection.

We rent with banker's money, all speaks, all suits, all thought.

We have no voice against they, who are owned by the Corporate Cats

We are the zeroes who've come here to shout down the sky!

We are tired to be neglected; we are tired of your wars, your money;

we are tired of your buildings, paying homage to your greed,

all who seek the sword to fulfill their words' prophesies

The Cats expect the multitude to blindly follow, and slaughter the innocents,

too weak to have a voice; when you are born hungry, it's easy to kill.

You break the law to live; if you don't, you die.

What is it in your world that you seek, Mr. Corporate Cat?

What is enough? How much do you need that would make you be willing to share

Do the soon-to-die have to get their guns for you to understand

that there is anger in your land and, fire in their eyes?

We are weak, and the rats have come to claim their home

The quiet falls so that the empty walls in the halls, look like a feast.

We pray to a God, who has no ears to hear us, no eyes to see, and no hand to hold.

We cling to each other and, hope that hope will come soon, or death fast

Through all of this, we do know that, if there is a tomorrow, there is hope.

If you see a dirty, windy, noisy, street, that is where you'll find us.

If you see a cop, beating down on a stranger, that is where you see us.

If you see any long line of people, that is where we are.

We are your product, an extension of yourself; we make your "bottom line"

We are on your minds, among the finely quaffed green of the 6th hole.

The 6th, an amendment of the soul, will always carry your clubs.

We clean your toilet, haul your garbage, deliver your paper.

You insult us when your food isn't perfect.

We are the silent ones that you don't see.

If you can't feel our sorrow, you've had too much.

You don't see us because, you don't want to. You are too important

We are lost in our wild and angry nation, that hustles, so, for dollars.

We have only our faith to sustain us,

and with that, we are more wealthy than you!

We give praise to your tumble, your mumbling reason for incompetence.

Your fall let's us laugh at the possibility that you might soon join us.

But no, what is this?

Money, to help you out, comes from me?

It is the foulest of hormones you have, Corporate Cat!

You have become the mystery inside our history.

It was with a breech of promise that you stole our wealth.

You dodge your guilt so well with phoney philanthropy,

you make the gift a mockery.

We, occasionally, side with the Devil out of pure desperation.

When you can't eat, in the land of plenty,

the morality of my actions meets the whip of your Corporate justice.

You are wrong America, the real thieves are in the Penthouse.

Learn more about this author, Joseph Coleman.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.

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