They say the Millennial's Youthful Glean
Is made by good hydration... but it is not.
It is, actually, the programs we consumed
And the toys, and living in a perpetual state
Of childhood... where we filled our minds
With such chemicals that stunted our growth.
Good or bad, the same thing has happened
Before, in older civilizations, such as Rome.
When hedonism touches the child, their
Chemicals cause them to slowly mature
And the brain chemistry works within them
A youthful figure, so they grow to be forever young.

The gay child publically defames a good man
For making a "Nazi Salute" when it was only
An Innocent Wave. I consider it wrong, yet 
Understandable... we're all so zealous to defeat
A spectre that is haunting our society; Trump
I don't believe is a Nazi, but some of his followers
They certainly are. Which he's whistled at.
Racism is a machine, turning a once humble
And integrated society back to the days of rioting
And war... but that's half Obama's fault
For reopening the wound to begin with;
Now, every black man who is shot by police
Is a city burned and every innocent wave
Is a Nazi Salute... understand also, girls
Wanted their cleavage to show, and were outraged---
Little 16 year old girls--that their schools prevented
Them from looking like sluts to the entire class
All eighty of them... I looked through my Yearbook
And saw only two sets of cleavage. And only one
Was actually flagrant. Not eighty. This world
Being created is not a good world, and maybe
We need Old King Cole to rule over our children
Once again, so they are touched by the innocence
Of the childlike splendor, and the Tall Tales, Christ
And Nursery Rhymes and Fairy Tales with Happy Endings.
Maybe they need that world, so they know this one is not better.
With Elvis, the A Team and their first musical experience
Is Journey's Separate ways. They need something more
Than Gangster Rap, Lust and Money to be associated 
With what is good. They need to see it, and know it
So they can know, once and for all, what is good from bad.

My loves, across the world,
I am the Albatross, your sorrow and shame.
All around the world, my name is heard
Like it never were, or never was and couldn't be.
And all are ashamed of what they have done to me.
My sins are like your sins, but my sins are known
And you hate me, for you wished me to stay silent.
You cursed me, and took my thoughts from me.
And you said, "We are justified."
Yet... what I have done is what you have done
And you have done far worse...
Oh, how I am to your shame, your never ending curse.
"What have we done!" cried the peoples who buried my heart.
The poet's destiny was broken,
By the petty feuds of great dictators
When America had freedom of speech.
I am the albatross, for my shame is yours
And you have done this to me
And stolen my bread and given it to the world.
But where is my bread?
And that is why I am your shame.
I asked not for more than I could eat,
But my solemn portion, for the good work I have done.

The True Fairyland of Old King Cole

Mother Goose Nursery Rhymes

Tall Tales

Merry was my heart, old King Cole
With your melodies...
Yours was the world I came from.

The true Fairyland, and Old King Cole,
Told a tale ever so old...
Lazy I am and Lazy I be,
But I'm not so lazy, you will now see.

I worked 300 hours, at five pence a tick
I worked it all day, and got ever so rich.
I was youthful and handsome and well to do...
More beautiful than 10,000 it is true.
I split logs, and threw them, sometimes eighty pounds
And I raked up the refuse, and threw them in barrels and proud
I was to do this work, until poison ivy made an itchy curse.

Then I spent my days, writing my odes,
"For why risk the poison," is what my heart told.
And I learned many things, I shall now tell so old.
I learned Psychology, and Philosophy, and Religion it's true
Sociology and History of not a places so few.
I learned Math and Science and saw all the most famous art.
I cultured my mind on the great litterateurs of large.
Great and timeless classics, to which I see Abo the Lazy...
I say... that is a bit too crazy.
I do not want gemstones, or to be a millionaire,
Just to marry my woman, and slay the goblin, and have just recompense fair.

For I took to the painters and did the hall
While Abo the Lazy sat there and watched.
Then he and the Goblin painted one room
When I had prayed to God it would be finished, too.
There they saw him, in the way,
And fear frightened his faces, and I was not so gay.
Then I had thoughts, which few were truly good
And I quit my job, as I knew I should.

Then I spent one day folding laundry it's true
And nearly broke my hand pulling on the grooves
Of a quilt, upon the duvet, and my hand got crippled
And any more work I would say
That I could have withered it true.
So I went back to writing, these odes here to prove.

I was a shepherd, and trimmer, and painter and cook
A dishwasher and guard but never a crook.
I do not lay upon my side, and ask my mother to spin...
No, I write my odes and battle my own sin.

Tender Christian, you are startled in the fold
By mild controversy, either young or very old.
There you stand, a sheep in pasture, grazing on your cud.
You do not, oh you do not, you do not like the mud.

You are there, with your fleece, that warms your pastoral care
And he feeds you with the finest grains, and with you love doth share.
Tender and timid, in the barn, you shy away from another voice.
Yes, every change to the world, you look to your Shepherd's joy.

You are very timid, and very tame, and will not come well nigh...
You do not like things to change, and you are not very wise.
You need to be led, and tenderly tapped, by the shepherd's instrument
And the wolves, the wolves, they need to be whacked.

Yet, every once in a while, one of you wanders from the fold
And you get dirty and muddy, and your black fleece gets very grown.
And with your long nails, and with your clot back, you bleat for help I see;
For the shepherds keep, oh how the shepherds keep, they keep changing everything.

You like consistency, and to be fed your grains, and to be given your good food.
You like to labor at the yard, and eat the grassy good.
You do not like new routines, or new undershepherds in your yard.
You like everything to remain the same, so you do not wander very far.

I consider his arguments---
And I know complex civilization cannot work
Under his absurd claims.

If the worker took home all they produced
Their managers--who have a harder job, it's true--
Would not gain their money.
Nor would the top people, who made the company.

Surely, billionaires are a problem...
But surely... there are a lot more nuances to the market
That give us Haagen Dazs and Coca-Cola and Ahold
And it essentially feeds all of us.

So, teaching your students to do as little work as possible
Will only make them slaves to the tyranny of Marxism.
Which takes all the worker's wage, and instead of it being Corporate Giants
It is Putin or Xi who gets all the money, while we waste away.

Simply put, the resources are there...
Workers need to tap into them...
Billionaires make too much money...
But it's also a psychological need for humanity to work.
It's also true, you can't create a utopia, where people sit by pools
And sip Pina Coladas, without someone making them.

It's a balanced subject, but Wage Labor is the best system
Because it gives the people a part of what they earned.
It's just the fact that people are not transforming the capital
At the standards they ought, and are not purchasing capital
At equal exchange of their labor's value.
Which both problems, lead to the issues we face.
Where Marxism cannot be a solution.

The solution, is simple... it's limit the amount people can make.
And limit the size of corporations.
Eliminate criminal records, past the sentence served.
That way, everyone has a chance to enter into the markets.
And also find markets for niche goods, and have logistics that can bring them to people.