Capitalism's Trawling Bag. Poem by Tor Magnor Solvang

A net, like a catching sieve it goes,
Pulled through a world where all life flows.
Big holes in front let water race,
But little fish, can't find no place.

Mesh so small, lets nothing pass,
From humble shrimp to finned brass.
No king, no lord, no fancy name,
Can hide from capitalistic 'fishing games'.

The net are pulled, the bag it fills,
With every life society spills.
Rich or poor, it makes no choice,
Just gather all with a silent voice.

So this net, it works its simple way,
In oceans vast, or markets gay.
Grabs all it can, both big and small,
To fill the coffers, stand up tall.

They're swept and pushed, like a watery stream,
Into a bag, a gathered dream.
No matter if you're rich or grand,
The small mesh catches, close at hand.

In games of wealth, this net is cast,
To grab all fortune, holding fast.
The great, the small, the meek, the bold,
All caught and sorted, bought and sold.