the wind must now be golden,
my energy bills swollen,
as my fair wits face a slight
yet without recourse to fight
the injustice,
the gaslight.
Renewably,
I cannot bluster surprise
through my wool-beclouded eyes,
when there's no price paid for greed,
cronyists hoisting the lead,
unimpeded,
unabashed.
When the markets crash
once again they'll soar on gold
laced winds above the clods sold
down many a mud strewn trail,
matter churned to no avail,
bilked, diddled out
in the cold.
