On the Revolution by Chuck Taylor

I wish I could eat a capitalist.
I see their stores and feel their fists

everywhere, but I can’t find them
anywhere. They’re not the little

businessmen in their little vans
scrubbing your carpets or trimming

your poodles. They live on tax-free
offshore islands now, behind walled

estates. I’d like to eat a capitalist. I’d
smother with garlic to yummy the flavor.

Of course they’re made of nuts and
bolts and hard to chew and swallow,

but still I wish to chaw on down one
big capitalist. They probably know

what we’re thinking years before
we’re thinking it. Their advertising

agencies are just that slick. They’ll
offer us fat capitalist burghers and

old fat capitalist cigars and if we
should persist, they’ll laser zap us

from high in outer space from a
capitalist efficient secret satellite.

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