To make oil more valuable, the oil men

Pretended oil supplies were doomed.

So business and scarcity together,

Like honored, chaste love, in the 20th century, bloomed.

Oil, as plentiful as water, was the new gold.

Since oil isn’t really rare,

The suppliers and their allies had to scare

The public, to whom all that oil was sold.

Just as you did. Darling, every day

You made it clear: you would take your love away.

Your delightul supply

Was limited, pushing up my demand;

Love streamed freely into my eye,

But yours was the blinding sand

Which made my philosophy die.

I formed a picture of you in the street,

A hazy picture, aesthetic, and sweet

Which people in my mind traversed.

Like Rockefeller, you got me. I was the poet, cursed,

To bring you homage, anxiety, and tears.

The marketplace of the heart made you rich in those years.

You carried out your threat. Your price rose.

Romance kissed. But supplies froze.

I gave you all I had, but could not afford

To stay with you, my beautiful landlord.

There is no art, Baudelaire. There is no derangement.

Poetry and love is a business arrangement.

The greatest aesthetic belongs to God.

Not the paintbrush, Baudelaire. The rod.

Innocents die in accidents. Is the Creator to blame?

The senators are silent. The price of oil is still the same.


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