Socialism is the theory of economics
Without the practical knowledge
Of resource scarcity.

 American teens are so attracted to it
Because they see unlimited waters
In deserts, they see forests
Which replenish their paper
And they never are hungry.

Yet, when a simple task is before them
They'd rather piss and moan
And talk about how life is so unfair.
They had messy rooms
Which their parents felt guilty for making them clean.
And the rich kids' parents paid their school
While those of us who had no money
Didn't get the free pass to the four year university.

In short, we didn't learn the fact that every generation before us had learned.
The rich get benefits in life.
Yet, in America it's the only country where I have any shot 
At earning my living with these books I wrote.
Yet, because of my generation
Even that opportunity is being stripped from me.
To a point where what Dostoevsky's grand Inquisitor said was true.
There is no sin. There is no crime.
The only moral is to feed---
And they cry out for their freedom to be removed. 

I saw in a dream
There were two whom I loved.
The first had with them an ape
And the second had with them a panther.

The one of my beloved walked their ape
Close to the panther
And the two fought a moment's battle.
And I separated the two.

Minutes later, the one of my beloved
Took their ape, and brought it near the panther again.
I warned them not to,
Yet they wished to see the two beasts fight.
The panther, like an agitated beast
Slashed its claws at the ape.
Thus they did take to mortal combat
When the Panther in a rage
Took to swinging its unsheathed claws
At the ape.
The ape became furious
Sofore, grabbed the panther by its neck
And drew the panther into its cage
And sunk its fangs deep into the panther's neck.

I tried to prod the two beasts apart
Who were locked in their battle
But could not separate them
For they were wild with fury
And both were in their bestial rage.

The one with the ape then spake of the panther:
"It looks so dead and soulless."

I woke up disturbed by the dream.

He had a heavy burden for a fig
Yet no burden for the lives he destroyed.
He claimed, "Science!"
Did science save the world?

Embers of civilization slowly darken;
Ashes fall as a settled dust.
He stole from the Masonry its cornerstone
And it being awkward, he said, "What is this?"
He plugged the gap with plaster
Which was inlaid with fine artistry.
Of the cosmos, which would replace the Chapel's ceiling
Had the cleaning not been done.

He looks up, and rather than see Michelangelo's 
Frescos carry the full weight of the stars
He looks up, and sees the empty vacuum of space.

Yet, he filled in the gap.
He painted upon it his universe.
Minutes later, the structure
Leaned toward its center.
Its towers wept, its spires sagged
Its walkways and walls bent inward.
The gap broke, revealing the hollowed out space.

Yet, thinking he were wise, he
Told all how the plaster would hold.
It would hold because it seemed true.

Many were in that structure.
Many fell that day.
For great was its fall.
And many perished beneath their burdens.

Always the worst of me...
That is what you dig up.
Yet, my weakest is my strongest
And my strongest comes from God.

My heart is broken and my soul is threshed.
Thou, Assyrian, rake'th me over the coals
Like Hezekiah's kingdom.

A glimmer of hope,
Only you strive to steal it from me.

O, thou Prince,
Who wishes to dig up from among my bones
Things which are simple;
The things which my heart had poured out.
You dig...
And you find my weakest...
Yet, in them are wise thoughts unveiled.

The sun turns back seven degrees
And the hoary frost of winter is over.
Need you punish me?
For what?
Dig, and you shall find the sins of my folkstems.
Dig hard for them, you shall find me guilty
As all men are.

So, leave me...
Leave me in peace
In Jesus' name.

Michelangelo, the cretic beauty of your namesake,
Let me diverge from my folksy wisdom, and sing
Upon this lute the song of your Sistine Chapel.
No, I shall not use my utterances which bring on songs'
Mystic echoes, to my rigid verse and primal
Muse of meters sung without their feet conforming to the
Standards of the ancient lores, spun upon papyrus cloth.

I watch and listen to the sage who says your art was dulled
By the washing of a thousand hands which stripped from
Them their shadow like the cross shall strip away our sin.
And, yet, it is the most precious sight my eyes had ever seen.
For by the sins of careless hands, a sin brought grace to me.
For wrong it was to strip the work its shadowed veil;
Yet not a thing more beautiful had my eyes ever prevailed.
For Christ, our sin, shall wash away, to scrub off our darkened shadow.
And by this washing, because we sinned, we shall be beauty's mallow.