"Our docks go rotten with the unsold grain. Let Russians eat cakes! My fields have weight of wealth enough to feed thin ideologs. Until the commies come round to Adam Smith 5 and every Black Sea dacha lilts to 'upon the fruited plains', our Uber Alles, let rubles flit to Little Rock, Ark. Fresh wheat feeds Free Enterprise! Fresh wheat on the sea-drift skims.... All night I phoned my phoney congressman at The Mall; 10 his hands are tied. My head is in the sack! No stomach swears allegiance to a godless cause, all money loves a capitalists' warm palm. Beached here by our timid wish to feed and democratize the Slav, we hop, foot 15 and foot in hand while the White House consents to Bowdlerize the press, and so sacrifice events' true shape to rumor's inflating word that blows dragons from water-wings, and spills fertile fallacy from an honest palm of grain."
From the collection "Contemporaries"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.