The Prospector

Many people blame those with the money and power, The Man, for their lot in life, blaming the rich and powerful of hiding the Stash so they can’t have a piece of it. What if The Man was hiding the Stash in plain sight, under the cool green grass of the Mall? And what if someone, an old prospector say, had a, you know, map?



He shambled slowly down the street,

His shoulders bent from years of toil

His burro stolid, laden down

With picks and pans and sacks of meal

Some passersby inclined to greet

Were startled at the quick recoil

The little man was new to town

He didn’t know the rites, the deal

Onto the Mall he made his way

And pitched his tent upon the grass

His burro dumbly stood beside

Eyes closed, awaiting what would be

His pick and shovel quiet lay

He’d rest and let the dull pains pass

He knew good luck would soon betide

His map was good as map could be

The Mall police approached him then

With friendly voices, friendly mien

And asked what was he doing there

With tent and burro, picks and pans

He said politely to the men

That he was there the gold to glean

The Stash was here, he’d have his share

The gold was his if any man’s

They cuffed him then with hearty laughs

And led the burro to a van

The tent and shovels in a truck

The crowd that gathered stiff and still

The newsmen wrote some paragraphs

And then forgot the little man

A little tetched, down on his luck

And yet a man of iron bound will

For even though the Stash be not

Beneath the Mall’s expansive sward

The man was certain that somewhere

The Man had laid the Stash to hide

The good life from him and his lot

And keep him and his kind as ward

Of all his betters, those who care

And much despise those they deride


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