[. . .]
Hell is a city much like Port of Spain, what the rain rots, the sun ripens some more, all in due process and within the law, as, like a sailor on a spending spree, we blow our oil-bloated economy on projects from here to eternity, and Lord, the sunlit streets break Spoiler's heart, to have natural gas and not to give a fart, to see them line-up, pitch-oil tin in hand: each independent, oil-forsaken island, like jeering at some scrunter with the blues, while you lend him some need-a-half-sole shoes, some begging bold as brass, some coming meeker, but from Jamaica to poor Dominica we make them know they begging, every loan we send them is like blood squeezed out of stone, and giving gives us back the right to laugh that we couldn't see we own black people starve, and, more we give, more we congratulate we-self on our own self-sufficient state. In all them project, all them Five-Year Plan, what happen to the Brotherhood of Man? Around the time I dead it wasn't so, we sang the Commonwealth of caiso, we was in chains, but chains made us unite, now who have, good for them, and who blight, blight; my bread is bitterness, my wine is gall, my chorus is the same: "I want to fall."
--- Justin Schwartz <jkschw at hotmail.com> wrote:
> >
> >"He who laughs has not yet heard the bad news."
> >
> >Who said that? Karl Kraus?
> >
> >JC
>
>
> Brecht. It's from the poem To Those Born Later. My
> personal favorite,
> actually. "The food I eat belongs to the man who is
> starving. The water I
> drink belongs to the one dying of thirst. And yet, I
> eat and drink." jks
>
>
>
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