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(This has always been my favorite creation. It's a nice little bite at the heels of big business.)


Journalists and Politicians,
lining up in halls of white,
despite
the fact of business calling
leaving social prices dropping,
power failing,
weaker clinging to a railing,
hovering in strataspot,
waiting for their power shot.

To keep them here, some sort of crime.
Slime,
dripping from syringe,
your steady hands make mine cringe.
Sweet young nurse you may be,
yet see, inside of me,
I know I trust it not,
this power shot.

In morningtime,
the rhyme
of shuffling feet
from eerie high and mighty
drown out the cries of those more feeble,
pricked by power-giving needle.
They trudge like people newly sick.
That's what they are without its prick.
Without it, they can go on not,
the rich man and his power shot.