The International Monetary FundThe shell game has to end somewhere. I guess
It's stopping here today. He smiles as a jackal
Might, elbows on the table, hands together,
Fingers intertwined. â€œSo, we have reached
Agreement, then?â€ I shake my head. I have
No choice. The country fails without his money,
Fails despite it, one might say. We pay our bills
To wealthy lenders as we withdraw food
And fuel from our poor. It isn't fair. They can't
Get by, and, anyway, they'll throng the streets.
They'll hound me out of office soon, and he'll
Be back to fill his plate with new supplies of carrion.
Nobody tells his nation that it has to starve to make
Ends meet. It borrows, spends, and borrows more,
But it's not poor or small or brown. It sets the table,
Runs the game which leaves the rest of us with
Nothing in our pockets or our pans.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 65 times
Written on 2019-10-15 at 01:50
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