by Smitty
The wizened old man in a land antique,
Sat in the shade before a market ruined.
He hailed to me: “Man, what do you seek,
In the Fair Trade Bazaar of Xanaxind?”
“Some cold water, since English you speak,
If one can such in this ancient rubble find.
How must the former sights have been unique,
When time to this place was less unkind.”
“What, then? This place is glorious,
For hundreds of years a Socialist paradise.
Rectifying at a pace most furious,
That steep, unpayable capitalist price.”
“Socialist works, a despair so tortuous,
Mighty often bring with their ‘nice’.”
—
via Darleen