The Death of Capitalism

Like the fat man in Monty Python,

you ate yourself sick,

and your death is a messy affair.

 

Like the sad career of Mike Tyson,

you gave some mighty licks

but you were your own worst enemy there.

 

You chewed our ear off,

aggrandising your own worth,

but this earth was just too small for you.

You ripped off millions

so a few could bathe in gold

but you ran out of human souls

to grind up and enslave.

 

Your doctrine of ‘each to their own’

left you friendless and lonely

with no Samaritan to phone.

 

Your obsession with growth

made you obscenely obese,

and you ran out of the meek and the weak

to trick and to fleece.

 

You plundered nature relentlessly

until you had drilled your own grave;

the only skills you acquired were to conquer and tame,

till you’d no fresh water and no clean air:

where once was abundance, now nothing’s there.

 

Your worship of profits

meant that even love was commodified

and your soul cold and hard.

Now your corpse is putrefied,

your body bloated and scarred:

for he whose face gives no light, shall never become a star.

 

By Sam Berkson