The Lake Michigan Coast South of Chicago in March

Time hurries on

There are so many castles here,

By the lake.

I could hardly count the towers

And spires, and flying butresses.

There are sculptures, too.

How grand!  And all the coaches,

And carriages - all horseless, of course;

But the grounds are so carefully kept

Orderly and distinct.

Too bad the only royalty here

Are tycoons.  Robber barons

Of their industry.  They live elsewhere.

But the castles are never empty;

Oh, no, their servants (nigh indentured)

Work 'round the clock in shifts,

And, after forty years of servitude,

Their reward is a small pension

And a black lung.

The robber barons are fatter for all their toil.

And the castles spoil the land.

No middling man ever comes to see them.

They have no tourists.

None bathe on their beaches.

For their air is black, their lawns coal,

Or gravel, or soot.  Their products,

Piston rings, or head gaskets, maybe mufflers.

Who knows?  We only care about

The end product.  A new car,

So we may drive to the daily grind

Of our own deaths.

Without having to see any castles.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written March, 2008.  Pretty awful.

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