“Behold, the wages of the laborers who mowed your fields, which you kept back by fraud, are crying out against you.” – James 5:4
The lord proclaimed the woods
Were his and his alone,
As swords have greater reach than roods
And prayers less worth than moans.
Then moguls fenced the beach
And those who cut their lawns
Found cooling breezes out of reach
And longed for the beyond.
The keys to Heaven hang
On much too high a hook,
The choir of pressgang angels sang,
For you to take a look.
Pass your little laws
Proclaim the light that shines from stars
Immune to all distraint.
But men derive control
From forcing scarcity.
They charge a fee for your parole
And rent you liberty.