Why they gather in a dead tree, who knows?
Why their faces turn to the moon’s gold light
Is far less a mystery. It’s gold
And that charms them like a dancing snake.
They stretch their massive wings to catch the wind
And sniff the scent of death wafting from below.
Ain’t it true? Ain’t it true? I’m smart as a whip,
Said one of them. The smartest bird whoever
Scourged a bottom line. My profits speak the charm
Of exorbitant greatness. Hail to me.
It’s not just profits, it’s service as well,
Said another sitting on a higher branch.
That’s implied, pea-brain. The way ahead
Is to peck out the eyes of the wretched, the weak,
The sick, the blind. Give me your tired and poor,
And I’ll drown them like unwanted pups in debt.
This country needs a pageant to money.
People should be pious and worshipful
When it comes to honoring the true god
Of this land, he said, pausing, preening,
Then snacking on some nutritious lice.
It’s all good, the best of all possible worlds,
As long as I run Big Bank as I wish.
But the challenges never stop, each quarter,
A new way of squeezing profits from tears.
Presto, a credit card that would make a loan shark blush.
Sometimes, said his tree mate, a branch further down,
I think I’m running a laundromat
Not a bank. Got to wash that money clean
For underserved drug dealers or tyrants
Who have trouble converting what they steal.
Caw, caw, they sang in blackbird chorus,
We can do no wrong. Aren’t we respectable?
The moon’s gold rays anointed their black heads.
War is peace, they chimed, if it makes us richer.
Peace is death if it costs a stinking dime.