The city, where the poor will live beside the rich,
The filth beside the scum. The poor prostrate themselves
Before the rich, as though five hundred years or more
Of human pride and courage went to waste, as though
Those universal men threw off the chains of God
And rubbed their wrists, and rubbed their thumbs and fingertips
As quickly, throwing off the chains of hands, the hands
Of feebly communistic poor, of wasted men.
The waste, as though the mighty marble David’s member
Was just a bit too small.