Crossing the Floor
Divided, it
seems, by just two sword lengths
Are green
benched Capulets and Montagues,
Who, in
vitriolic rivalry stew
As vexed
ambition flexes its strength.
Whether
feeling neglected, rejected
Or some
bitter sense of injured pride,
One crosses
the floor to the other side,
Where
greater rewards might be expected.
This act of
principle or betrayal
Is mitigated
by the growing sense
That it
makes little or no difference,
As every
Commons cause is doomed to fail.
No matter
what the rivals do or say,
Capital
profits, and must have its way.
D. A.
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