Don’t hold your breath for
The Jubilee Year, when all
Debts are forgiven, property
Is returned. However good
The original proposal every
Society since, beyond the
Primitive, has thought the
Better of it, preferring
Generosity, charity to patch
Over rough spots—lead-
Poisoned children, tubercular
Young mothers, you know
That sort of thing. So keep
Your 1937 Duesenberg SJ
Convertible properly garaged,
Polished, just to let everyone
Know you’re not playing
The Jubilee game any time
Soon. You know very well
If they hanker for your car,
Your yacht is fair game, too,
As is the thirty-four room
Estate rolling over the lawn’s
Manicured acres near the sound.
Why, yes, I did install a green
Beacon at the beach, a token of
Honor to Gatsby, Fitzgerald,
And to let people know while
The getting of goods may fall
Into question, their having is a
Blessing none disavows. Even
The commoners know on
The day after a Jubilee the
Gifted would swiftly resume
Acquiring the wealth of the fools.
So why mess with nature’s way
Of sorting humankind? If the
Daughters of trashmen had talent
They’d soon rise above meager
Wages, turn their scrimpings to
To wise investments. How often
Do you hear of old maid librarians
Leaving their stockpile of coupons
To some university, getting
Their names in sandstone above
Tall oak doors? Not always but
It happens. Now there’s this
Troublesome Frenchman,
Piketty, I think, whose studies
Claim our money, which builds
Industries, has always benefitted
From an unearned advantage. He
Suggests a continuing world
Jubilee tax on the rich: ninety-
Nine per cent above some
Arbitrary amount, another tax
On each buck in trades, which
However small, mind you,
Would give them the sawdust
Every time we make a log. They’d
End up owning the wood, I tell
You. For whom?—why the talentless,
Lazy poor that’s who. The ones
Who won’t give up their three
Minimum wage jobs and get a
Nice broker’s seat where they
Could cobble a decent living
Like our grandfathers did.
c. J.S.Manista, 2016
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