11: Tax Havens

From winter’s waste grows wheatfield in July,
From destitution restitutions rise,
The World grows slowly wholly well aware
Of how its wealth is siphon’d out of sight
Of state-level laws, hidden from hatred;
Manhattan, Luxemburg & Delaware,
Small fries beside financial Albion,
Its perdifious bullseye paved with gold,
Where secret jurisdictions fix transferance,
The booty of mass thievery, loot sent
To tiny territories overseas,
Such maldistribution of resources
Makes honest stomachs sick, aye just as sick
As those forced to quaff wormwater’s filth-dirt,
Fourteen hundred children slain every day,
We cannot give them charity, so-call’d
Aid is merely the black mask of evil,
What truly must be done is cool justice,
When, as the world is turning debts to dust,
People break into vaults of Tax Havens,
Rescuing riches from fixers’ clutches,
Hurling huge hoards into our hungry streets,
Opening business to transparency
Lowering prices to their fairest depth,
Imprisoning any crass accountant
Who fudges books or dares facilitate
Illicit stills of money’s new moonshine.

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