Let the philanthropists leave their

mansion grounds

picture windows where

their good works are forever preening

like headless granite statues;

let a madman romp in their gardens,

a beggar eat off their table,

a hooker sleep in their clean white sheets

while they stand guard over the door;

today, the warden comes for dessert

but let it be the criminal,

not the giant serpent arms of the law

instead the petty snail trails

of the addict and the thief;

and instead of pretty daughters

why not bag ladies;

and for the wife who adores all his money

greet the ones who’d love a little of it;

high Oil the hills, the prisons of good

greet the sun as if the sun is greeting them;

let it rain a little on such mornings,

and a wealthy man be the peasant out in it

dampened by the spit of kings.

— John Grey