13 Feb 2016 – Sonnet
To the counter of the bean, only beans
are really real, all else is in dispute,
all products of the ears and eyes they weaned
themselves off long ago, all truth is moot.
No, there are only numbers on a page
that patiently await the gentle touch
of one whose choice it is to rearrange
the “facts” to suit the ledger, insomuch
as anybody cares – who writes the rules?
Who rights the wrongs – or dares to call them such?
We’re the people of the balance book, fools
whose souls are lean although we feed on much.
So praise the masters of dishonest scales,
for now Earth’s lords, though one day they shall wail.