A Polite Imperial March (Regarding Financial Markets)

Your mother's buried bones are hard and cold
they will not protect you from salt or wind.
As mayflower's seeds were planted in soulless soil,
her roots like fingers strangled this once-sanctuary.

O deadly buried daughters, ghost-less, sing!
Your Terra weeps on cold sea's stooped shoulders,
your bones, her bones, my bones -- they crack beneath
for Gold's sweet taste, we call to God: Europe!

Your Europe! There is no heart in her frigid breast
No Time has past, and thus All time, is best
forsaken like those albatross that hang
on a cello'd note of aching need.

O the air, the sea, and all your passion sleep
together while your mother's bones each rot
alone. A penny. A pound. and bloody gold.
What sufferings have we dared to build to send
away with all the riches of our sin?