Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, LES MISERABLES DE LUXE, by ERNEST HYETT


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

LES MISERABLES DE LUXE, by                    
First Line: Beneath a democratic flag
Last Line: Soft-pedal me your liberty.
Subject(s): Freedom; Labor & Laborers; Liberty; Work; Workers


Beneath a democratic flag
A citizen reposes;
Most favored man in all the world
He fondly presupposes;
While Freedom's flick'ring flame fades fast
Unconsciously he dozes.

Early in life identified
With some approved profession,
To Truth not overmuch allied,
He joins that masked procession
Of men arrayed in shell-rimmed glasses,
Who may be either knaves or asses.

Or else becomes a unit in
Some monster aggregation,
Whose huge immensity impels
His own disintegration;
And scarcely conscious of the shock
He daily pounds upon the clock.

And after years of faithful toil
He finds himself promoted;
The sure reward of those who moil
And prove themselves devoted;
And in that grand triumphal hour
He sensed the joy of human power.

Though he was boss of just one man
He felt the self-same thrill
As Kaisers, Kings and Despots!
When others do their will;
And in that silken net entwined
He sacrificed the Free-man's mind.

He saw himself in visions fair
Driving a limousine,
In days that 'twould not make him wince
To pay for gasoline—
Seared by the squalor of "his niche"
What could he do but "ape" the rich?

Yes!—eagerly he clutched the bait
Offered so temptingly,
Unconscious of the hidden jaws
That sought his slavery.
Who should have been in Freedom's van!
Was now, Ye Gods! a shadow-man.

He loved, he married—bought insurance—
A house, a car, a lot—
Till he was loaded past endurance!
So many things he got;
And now alas! there was no choice
But to obey "His Master's Voice."

He listened in as Patriots told:
How Freedom's cup was full!—
But, conscious of that galling load
His reason whispered: "Bull";
But openly he dared not question
The truth of that inspired suggestion.

And tho' yet in the prime of life
He thought of his last breath,
His corpse insured—his will secured—
He oft' hob-nobbed with Death;
(Yes!—Here amid this phantom band
He often sensed his Mother-land).

The years flew by so speedily
He knew not where they went;
Till now at last his sore-taxed back
With weary age was bent;
And looking backward since a boy
He scarce could view the path with joy.

And now reclining in his chair,
No longer a go-getter!
He takes a philosophic air:
"Can man do any better?"
A small voice answers: "Servile Slave!
Your only hope lies in the Grave!"

Perhaps some race of future men
Who scorn to bend the knee
To privilege and pride of birth!
May somewhat happier be;
But whining curs who cringe and cower
Can but accept their evil hour.

Perhaps some future race of men
Endowed with clearer brain
Will live and love and labor!
And 'twill not be in vain;
But till that glorious day shall be
Soft-pedal me your liberty.





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