PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

In panic we pump at the lifeless corpse, cardiac massage and shock,  

While one great infusion follows the other and still we dare not stop

For where is the brave man of our day who'll name the time of death?

We call and we call in wasted breath.



Meanwhile the anxious mass press near

Hope against hope, all filled with fear, for the thing can't die,  

While they, one by one, are all bled dry

And one great infusion follows the other, still we dare not stop.

For where are the doctors of our day, who could certify this death?

We call and we call in wasted breath.



For: Smith, Ricardo, Walras, Keynes, all men of stature and of means, are gone.  

Just dusty tomes or statues in parks, like the one I neglected to mention, Marx.

So in panic we pump at the lifeless corpse, cardiac massage and shock,

Whilst one great infusion follows the other and still we dare not stop,

We hope it won't die, while we all bleed dry and call and call in our wasted breath,

For the messengers we all put to death.