I.
You think you’re safe from the HAND.
You’re wrong.
Nobody can ‘scape its righteous wrath.
We are mere flesh bags
with brains full o’ insects
compared to our deductive master.
Don’t be prideful ‘nough to think you are free from its natural unnatural rule—
to this mighty fist stomping on inferior human minds fore’er
till we can’t e’en speak,
can’t e’en cry,
“What d’you want from me?”
But the HAND isn’t as simple as the regular totalitarian:
it doesn’t set down rules to follow
& reward those who do
& punish those who don’t.
No.
The HAND rolls the dice.
It sees if you get the gold o’ boxcars
or the snake eyes o’ death,
when it turns to you in its swivel chair,
& says,
“No, Bond; I expect you to die.”
The HAND smacks the earth like a gavel.
Its will be done.
So tief schlafen in Ihre Betten heute Abend,
denn Gericht fällt auf Sie an der ersten Ampel.
II.
I believe in only 1 god,
& that is the INVISIBLE HAND,
as set down in the scribes o’ Smith, Mises, & Rand;
& like the pretender, Yahweh,
it’s a vengeful one
that crushes both its fervent followers
& radical enemies
equally,
that favors both its fervent followers
& radical enemies
equally.
All follow their circuits
etched by the holy ₧,
its waves that rise & fall,
but ne’er sleep.
No one can scratch its e’er-morphing bones…
The Dark Order o’ the Marx tried,
& they were smote,
left as but a splintered wasteland o’ scattered hairs.
They tried to set up false idols in the winter wilderness,
but it just possessed them
& twisted them to follow the carrot o’ power & fortune like all others,
banishing them to the icy hell o’ Siberia
as a testament to what it can do to its “competition,”
leaving all but the boldest too tepid to stray from its fresh & salty waters.
No crusty Keynesian can cool its fires
or rein its wings.
They may only chase its septillion shadows.
Its million fingers poke holes in their strategies,
leaving them eternally guessing & guessing wrong,
till the classical titans break their bars
& return to power.
The Church o’ Mises think they can win its favor,
but the HAND just laughs as it scatters its thunder.
It hardens its children’s hearts
& sets its priests to follow the filthy false gods just for fun.
It sets its rules gainst themselves,
so that its most fervent followers keep tripping o’er themselves.
Christians & Muslims think they obey different gods;
but the HAND just laughs as their leaders
make millions selling Jesus commemorative plates
or when Allah’s knights die for the sweet taste o’ Pepsi in giant mansions.
¡Why, even Marxists fight o’er the copyright o’ his later works!
The HAND has no need for friends.
The HAND has no threat in need o’ destroying.
To it, any o’ the 3 may not exist @ all.
& when the floods & droughts o’ Kyogre & Groudon,
woken by the sour scent o’ the HAND‘s sweet carbon,
sweep us all ‘way,
that will be true inevitably anyway.
III.
The Elders o’ Econ tried to comprehend the HAND,
but failed.
The HAND works in mysterious ways.
It laughs @ their silly models
& sets its cycles to run contrary to them just for pleasure,
setting them scrambling for new theories to fit the ol’ every cycle.
IV.
& don’t bullshit with me that you don’t believe in the HAND.
You can talk all you want ’bout how it’s the HAND that’s where you are,
tattered, scattered, & scrambling on pavement itching for warmth.
But you & I know deep down what the hunger means ’bout you & me…
You don’t demand the jacket,
’cause you know you don’t deserve it.
So as you decay from all the cold that strangles the heart
or all the sun’s stale rays,
you’ll know that despite all those insipid punk slogans sputtering through your mind
that doubt in your flawed flesh seeps in,
& in your dying daze you realize
that you loved the HAND all ‘long.
¡All hail the HAND!
