The cat's not moving.  Maybe it's dead.
Someone on the phone with a very thick
Accent is saying they've heard that I
Need some insurance.  An e-mail is
Telling me I've won a car.  I'll receive it,
But they need my credit card number.  
A letter says I could save big if I take
Out a mortgage from Plutocrat Bankshares,
NA.  I could go on vacation with part of their
Loan.  I make barely the money I need
To survive if I'm able to keep it, if I slap
These hands which, by means sly and clumsy,
Come after my purse.  It seems nobody's
Willing to work anymore.  All the factories
Closed and were moved overseas,
And the physical labor remaining pays
Wages which only the illegal immigrants
Take.  It's as if the heart of the nation's
Stopped beating.  The corpse appears
Living because of its parasites.  Meanwhile,
I poke the cat with my foot, and it snarls.
At least, it's not dead.