To a Sophist

Oh, thou foul sophist,
You speak in your platitudes…
They have solved all the problems
But the rich have no gratitude.

They can harvest carbon from the sky
And chemically bind it with anon,
They can harvest it from the air,
They can use solar very fair…

The issue isn’t whether we can,
But the rich have asked, whether we ought.
So remember, my dear sophist, that what you lend
Is that the rich wish we were all dead, or bought.

For they hinder our progress,
They hinder it for their shame.
The problems are solved
But they see life as a game.

They want less people
They want less lives;
They want to build a world
And cause all the poor to die.

That is why.

So remember, that our fair Jerusalem,
With its chariots of fire can come
Through the practice of free trade
And its natural progression.

Yet the Satanic Mills of your cause
Which bring upon us unjust laws
Are going to stifle and burn our earth
For the poor upon it, yes the poor, are spurned.

For by the waters and by the breath
Of that good the Carbon, within breadth
We can drive our cars to eternity
If we so choose to live and be free.

For by stifling industry we cause our woes
And we do not solve our problems, but foes
Do try to make themselves a life
Of a world built to be the Rich’s paradise.