It is populist and for the first five minutes fun:
each noon they lynch a banker on the square.
A bright white rope descends from an opaque cloud
and forms a noose with precisely numbered coils
to match his tens of millions. Minions cheer.
Birds beak into the limousine. Wolves drag
the banker out feet first, his leather shoes
scuffing baldly on the plaza’s cobblestones.
The hangman’s coils caress his coiffured pate,
slip carefully down, enfold his bare bull neck
and hoist him gently till his broughams wave
a metre higher than beseeching hands.
The banker’s own hands wave about his ears
then grasp the coils, do chin-ups till they tire.
Rude manual measures generally don’t last
for long with bankers. Soon the cervix lengthens.
the face goes red and black and we go home
or would do had we not all been evicted.