The Industrialist

Atop my throne,
Flanked by steadfast smokestacks,
I often look to the skies,
The heavens,
Just visible through the neon pollution,
I admit I see only dollar signs,

I’m something of an industrialist,
Not exactly human,
The furnace within my ribs can only consume,
I auctioned off that old beating thing,
Ages ago,
Didn’t even get a good deal,

These iron hands may be cold,
But they work fast,
Because time is money,
Progress for it’s own sake,
All the green notes in my claws,
Create only more green in my eyes,

Humanity’s future lies on the profit margin,
Flight is wasted on the birds,
Beauty wasted upon angels,
Strength pointless in beasts,
These things should be ours,
Or mine,

Where’s the profit?
Where’s the progress?
The world can go down in flames,
Go under,
I’ll never notice,
I’ll be bathing in bullion.