Song-To the Men of England

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Men of England, wherefore plough
For the lords who lay ye low?
Wherefore weave with toil and care
The rich robes your tyrants wear?

Wherefore feed and clothe and save,
From the cradle to the grave,
Those ungrateful drones who would
Drain your sweat -nay, drink your blood?

Wherefore, Bees of England, forge
Many a weapon, chain, and scourge,
That these stingless drones may spoil
The forced produce of your toil?

Have ye leisure, comfort, calm,
Shelter, food, love's gentle balm?
Or what is it ye buy so dear
With your pain and with your fear?

The seed ye sow another reaps;
The wealth ye find another keeps;
The robes ye weave another wears;
The arms ye forge another bears.

Sow seed, -but let no tyrant reap;
Find wealth, -let no imposter heap;
Weave robes, -let not the idle wear;
Forge arms, in your defence to bear.

Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells;
In halls ye deck another dwells.
Why shake the chains ye wrought? Ye see
The steel ye tempered glance on ye.

With plough and spade and hoe and loom,
Trace your grave, and build your tomb,
And weave your winding-sheet, till fair
England be your sepulchre!

Response to: Song-To the Men of England

Dear Percy,

Sentiments much appreciated,
But only the aesthetic quality of your verse -
How inspiring it is - the tone, the rythm, the melody, has merit

What you actually say, on the other hand, is not convincing as real art.

What a master of poetic technique you are
But as for your words,
I don't think you quite understand
The rich are the wealth
Creators.

And so, really, you should reconsider
Your flowing, albeit very beautiful, flight of rhetoric
And instead ponder on the merits of
The heroic entrepreneur:
The primo progeniteur.

Think how hard it is to reproduce the conditions of production - and usufruction.

Dedicate yourself to this noble task instead of poetic subduction.

Then, perhaps, if you're warm and fluffy
We'll make you a poet Laureate
Like Carol Anne Duffy

Back to business,
My little creative entrepreneur,
My little choufleur.
Without this money magic
We wouldn't know what to do.
Wheels wouldn't turn
The sky would fall
In fact we'd all be dead...

Pups wouldn't get sold.

The entrepreneur is a veritable mage
His work is worth triple times ten
The work that you do.

Don't try to question this just look
at the proof.

Ye have leisure, comfort, calm,
Shelter, food, love's gentle balm
This is all thanks to him and us, dear, not you
and your revolutionary crew.

So run along now and keep working on your diction
Because the rest of what you say Shelley
We are going to file under fiction.

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