Not like the quiet tempest of modest gain
with calming hands open woman to man;
Here we find the giants’ scheming plan
A mighty dollar with no remorse
whose green is a country’s suppression
and its name Father Corporate.
From his bejeweled-hand dangles a pitiful living;
his greedy eyes scorch the vestiges
of struggling helpless ants.
“Keep, pathetic low-lifes, your bellied groveling
Give me your hope, your education,
Your coward minds yearning to rebel,
the wretched thinkers of your future,
Send these, the trodden, ill-begotten to me,
I shine my greed beside the closed door!