The Island of the Hardest Workers

Give me your poor, frustrated, over-schooled,

the ones you promised hard work makes “success,”

the trusting little lambs the bankers fooled

and offered at the altar of excess.

We came in hooded sweatshirts to the shore

of your secluded island made of gold,

degrees and aspirations by the score.

We offered work, and sadly we were told:

“We’ve had enough of work!” You spoke with tears.

“With garners full, we’ve chosen to retire.

We all have food and oil to last us years,

but we’ll collect a fee, should you expire,”

and then you told us it was our own fault;

we let our parents fill and lock your vault.