End of Term Report
This, my two hundredth Socialist Sonnet,
Two thousand, eight hundred lines for the cause,
And perhaps time to stop, or at least pause.
Poems of possibilities, and yet
People largely remain loyal to their states,
While workers of the world have made some gains,
Too few seem to want to throw off their chains;
Capitalism still proliferates.
Socialism? There’s no foretelling when
Or even if. But a resort to force
Can’t hurry history along its course,
As words won’t either. So I’ll sheath my pen,
Having not changed the world one iota
And my now having written my quota.
D. A.