They’re quite a pair of warring wits
fighting over not much of aught,
and so, for all their barbs and fits,
there is much ado about nought.
How complex and twisty
the syntax of Shakespeare,
like a river—misty,
yet running smooth and clear.
He clung to the scant sunlight
of her love in Wintertime,
never letting go so he might
move on to a warmer clime.
“Money doesn’t grow on trees”
they always tell you,
but it can, does, and with ease
if you have enough revenue.
It grows on a complex leaf,
which is to say, legislation
rooted in Conservative belief
to benefit the wealthiest of the nation.
If you inherit enough wealth
and sit on it, year to year,
and if the economic health
of the stock market is without fear
then your dividends will grow
larger and larger, beyond anyone’s need,
so you reap more than you sow
like some inverse Johnny Appleseed.
Some might say the rich stay on top
by being smart and having the “knack”,
but the rich employ the cream of the crop
and insider trading, a Farmer’s Almanac.
And they all have a tax shelter—
arboreal shade on another shore
to weather crises and helter-skelter;
more orchards than the toiling poor.
Ophelia! Ophelia! The blooming maiden at rest
with her hands clutching rosemary to her burdened breast,
guided down this babbling brook, both gentle and strong,
with Undine eddies to sooth and usher her along
beyond the whitewater past, awash in the heart
afield of a dead father, lost lover, brother apart.
Let those figures in the rocky froth fight fierce no more
for she knows now the peace which neither nun nor whore
may find in Heaven, nor in Hell, however it please them
while men pull hither and thither, by hair, sleeve and hem.
Whether by method or madness, whichever Man may bring,
this girl lays in a sweet silence, or else she must sing
the songs of Lost Love and the songs of her Sorrow,
down the brook you go! Nevermore rue tomorrow…