A Lament for Oligarchs

There are a hundred bloody good reasons why
I'd like to kill you, oligarch.
Watching as children starve
As good men labor poor into the grave
As mothers cry over murdered sons
I could kill you while you sit sated,
smiling on a pile of money
But, I still have a few loose morals left.
I'm not like you.

I should not even mention murder, here,
summer 2015.
I've seen enough of it.
There's been enough of it.
The blood spills in our streets too freely.

I think, perhaps, this is to your advantage?

Really, when I stop to contemplate your place in the world,
I feel sorry for you.
It must be hard work keeping everyone off guard
and at each other's throat,
divided.... conquered,
while they sleep with illusions of liberty.
It's not a task I envy.

What I can't abide though, oligarch,
is you taunting me with that freak show
you own called American politics....
I mean you've got to be fucking with me, right?
Am I really to believe that these goofballs
are actually capable of running a country.
You won't even let us have a true martyr anymore.
I think that's just a bit too cruel.

And in parting, my dear oligarch,
just one last thing before I let you
get back to screwing everyone.
I'd just like to know,
what it's like to have all of that blood on your hands
and not feel anything?
It might help me out while I try to endure what you've done to us.