“Take what you can! – Give nothing back!” (citation: Jack Sparrow and Mr Gibbs)

Science arranges nature as men tend their gardens

To answer a convenient pleasantry

Minds outwardly displaying, show their content in their portraits

A patch of earth; a process, or some gadgetry

 

Drawn down on a banked collateral evolved, laid under;

By invisible selfless hand at work jobbing unceremoniously

Which does not market, advertise, contract-with, brand, or sell

Silent and salient mass producer of life’s bottom drawer

 

Some such is in its logic prior to, in time also

Set previous; and a master’s seat providing thus,

As sated gardeners draw in pleasure, being their labour’s pay

This lord of all earth’s glories sits on Summer’s evening day

 

Contented with fit satisfactions such a master sits

Equal of quiet homage owns a non-audacious peace

Forgoing contests for comments brimming over a neighbour’s wall

The upstanding gratulations of men’s subtle friendly foe

 

Unheard, unregistered, this blithe master simply rests

Happy to be providing singing birds in feathered nests

Intrepid ransacks, goings-on beseige his open door

Thinking the master out men taking cue would rob the store

 

Making themselves thus masters with insurgent curly tails

Or thinking so, science thei rbecoming fairway garden

Yielding them garlands of ornament in exponential glamour

Tin, copper, iron, aluminium, gold

 

Lavish this ravishment and sonorous the lauds

The sub-tenant masters ingather to their metalled souls

Vaster than master true might want to hanker, presuppose

Rankles in heads infatuate dirigible

 

Can you dig it? Good! Go dig it! Raise a mountain mining town

People it and bedraggle it with wraiths constraint curtails

Knee high in scorious silts in loin cloths set them sifting folds

The master’s fairest earth’s-extracted, comminuted

 

Contaminants sanguine scented waft their crazy money fumes

Like sharks across the ocean snuff for palatable meats

High guys in lofty towers prattle, dandle forks and knives

Menus awaiting

 

Mimicking masques at being masters, fashioning in their heads

Graven and set up adorned high tables ceremoniously

Mirroring their afflictions, affections showing selves abjectly

They worship. Food to think on…?

 

Which high hombres spurn widowed: that their loaded scales should skip

Unstable as the basement drifts they’re leaned upon

And baseless and those power dreams their egos preened on

Assuming unassuming grace presumes a coup deposal

 

Disposal of the spoils had from the reaches of the planet

Deposal and disposal of that providence germane

Of riches truly riches and not hijacked plundered offal.

That come should come tomorrows of a natural consequence

 

That Tom should raid the larder every merry midnight feast

Should throwaway all precaution in his fervid feeding fit

Pantechnicons of groceries, and him forever underwrit

And before he bursts exhaustion he could suffer

 

A world worn out by aggravated knife assault

Cuttings that like a cake a slice in here, a portion there

Feeds and increases appetites anticipation-drawn

On a rich addiction

 

No counting costs; be doffed, till loss has everything

Take what you like the master says, but you need pay for it;

Yet givings-back are proceedings in a temperate counsel

Finding for a due regard against profligacy

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