When Karl Marx looked down from heaven
At crisis in the world below,
He thought he might provide a leaven
So sat to think of some bon mot.
But as he watched the world’s devotion
To capital, ocean to ocean,
He wondered at the workers’ fear
About the day when they’d premiere.
His MANIFESTO had attested
That they were capital’s boot hill,
A destiny they could fulfill,
If only they’d done as suggested:
With “Workers of the world, unite,”
He didn’t add “…but be polite.”
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