A sonnet deploring the apathy and inaction of wealthy neighbors letting hapless refugees seek out asylum far away from home. The use of first person here points to government rather than citizen.
My palace isn’t big enough for you
And me, so I suggest you take a ride
Just down the street to where a pot of stew
May see a face that has no place to hide.
My gross insensitivity may seem
Disgusting to the world, but how can one
By any measure realize his dream
With mendicancy blocking out the sun.
I need my oil to generate me power,
And power runs the air conditioning:
You know we need it hour after hour
To cool the passions all this wealth can bring.
So let me breathe and be now on your way,
My gold will weigh me down another day.
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