OLD DADDY WARBUCKS

here from the past
speaks to us again

his raw voice gurgles
under blood

it bubbles up
as only blood can

we soon understand
how lofty words
have always bred
soft souls

he steals our golden fleece
then speaks to us of peace
when there is no peace

but we would believe
in having cake and fun
so we follow him
like the sheep
we have become

his greedy steel hands
reach abroad to grasp
the recycled classes
of baby paper nations

this financial architect
draws innocence in red
dries it into dead
the price of black gold

while we the people
never know the score
or who chooses those
who do the bleeding
whenever daddy war
comes a-needing