Look up above your heads, Good Sirs, and tell me what you see.
It’s just an inch away, Good Sirs, on that we can agree.
But how it came to be, mind you, is something I protest,
And how it came to be, mind you, is what must be addressed …
Across the years the Dream, you know, has grown into a code:
To school and then to work, you know, a highly traveled road.
To harvest a degree – how nice! – will surely pay the bills,
And guarantee a life – how nice! – of using all your skills.
But therein lies the rub, my Gents, it seemed too good, too true:
An unaccounted hole, my Gents, a lot derived from few.
To pay the bills of now, I find, requires a degree;
To pay for the degree, I find, I must be bourgeoisie.
The hole kept growing still, what’s more, and harder to withstand,
I can’t support myself, what’s more, I pray you understand.
For now I give to you, my Gents, what you so kindly gave,
That which I cannot bear, my Gents, I hope that you can save.
Look up above you now, you men, look what is on your heads:
I’ve nothing more to give you men, each drain and vein is bled.
So as you watch your land, so grand, descend amongst the ranks,
Attempt to save your land, so grand, by reaching to your banks.
And only then will we, at last, be free of such a threat:
A state that sends a child at last, a paralyzing debt
Because she wished to learn – absurd! – and further her own lot
And chase her only dream; absurd: an education bought.
So to my future child, I ask, what shall I say to her?
If offered a degree, I ask, so then must she defer?
My words are plucked from minds, Good Sirs, from those I learned them thus,
And if you can’t catch on, Good Sirs, I suggest a school bus.