There were, I heard, exotic plants
Whose jobless wastes have laid
Their bed; yet lying there are roots
Anew, but running deeper than the sod.
Those voodoo ergonomics said
That savage cuts would reap
A bounty of new growth and put
The legless sovereign on its feet.
A few decisive cuts where nobody can see
Would benefit this corporate state?
Not so: the root’s in the malignant head
And pain beneath will only hide its ache.
A futile thought: a few blades bought
Could save that blighted place.
Is this the best that we can get,
The nose cut off to save the face?
In vain; yet scars will come to close.
Meantime the spirit steels itself
And cutting back unearths new seams:
The golden trace that lies beneath.
