The streets are filled with a cry of distress
and joyful shouting nonetheless,
with tribal stomps in perfect time,
and fervent movement, hiphop rhyme.
Plus The other side of this Demmie greenback:
it shows woodstock gentsia and academic hack
media egos, celebrity stars, and the freakish fringe;
their redistributionist binges make Repubos cringe.
Out in the field we see a church picnic
with measured grace, and mortared brick;
we hear careful words that divide the time
with calculated results and holy rhyme.
Plus the other side of their grand old meeting:
country club set, with scripted greeting,
credit swappers, debit daubers, practice productivity,
while Demmies make jokes about their activity.
Meanwhile back at the ranch
above the streets and below the tranche,
what's that I hear rising from the ground?
a suite of swelling symphonic sound?
a veritable rhapsody of virtual agreement
with taxes deducted and fiscal appeasement!
What if Washington's cadres just crossed the cold Delaware,
while the King's drowsy troops weren't aware?
I have a dream; I know you do too.
Surely there's resource for me, and for you.
Let's keep our dream dreaming, but tweak it more functional,
making work our policy, and kindness more unctual;
'cause the river we're crossing is deep and its wide,
with estuarial currents and roaring riptide.
As we stand here unsure, squinting out at the brink,
let's bale out the flood, so our damned ship don't sink.