But for a Pound of Ezra
by Norman Ball
Those too-large numbers fooled us like a ton
of feathers. Count the zeroes that can fit
atop the City's greed. There wasn't one
like Lot, so rare, to settle for a bit
of bread, some wine. The algorithm spun
a michief that pretended to the throne
of solid gold. Intrinsic, nature won.
From sea to shined-up sea it was a loan
mentality. One nation plundered God.
His city on a hill, the cartels own
with mortgages and Mammon. The facade
of banks, their pillared ranks, are salt not stone.
And yet we labor at their phantom heft,
perpetuating usury and theft.
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©2009 Norman Ball |
