Down With Capitalism

by Mike Beasley

Well, look at you, little Ms. Malcontent.
You’re a walking bazaar, a manicured marketplace,
A purchased daughter donned in purchased glory,
Bought tulip among tulips bought.

How hot you are with the heat of production!
And how well rehearsed the ancient envy!
Your assembly-line outrage still tempts some to shout
“Down with capitalism! Down with the Man!”

Almost though persuades even me to be a worm!

But much merchandise from dens of toil
Betrays you, annotates you, clutters your margins:
Coat and cardigan, slacks and socks and sneakers;
Conditioner, shampoo, blow-drier, iron,
Bases, creams, make-up and gloss—
How these do emboss your Hollywood stature!
Combs and brushes, bottles and sprays
For the day’s grooming, scenting, teasing—
You make The Man grin as you call the sheep
From your pasture, the Capitol lawn. Speak your bane,
You stylish, fragrant comrade forecasting pain.

Cozy up to your vanity, the mirror you face before
Facing the cameras, censor the profits on capitol grounds,
And wag that sparkling finger at me watching you
From the bedroom side of my brand new plasma TV.

I’m down with you. I’m down with capitalism, too.

So tell me:

What spite lurks there beneath your nomenclature?
You have no might to quell a spider’s nature.