Atlas Mugged

A book that's coming back in style was written by Ayn Rand.

The plutocrats said 'twas a map unto the Promised Land.

Called Atlas Shrugged, it tells the tale of some guy, name of Galt,

Who is the modest hero, though his scotch is single malt.

The story's in the future, and we're in a pretty mess;

The public has gone Socialist – does nothing but play chess.

The government has taken over all the industry;

Everyone's got health care and good job security.

Ms Rand paints lurid pictures of the lazy, stupid crowd,

Who turn their back on Wall Street (which must never be allowed!)

So one by one the moguls who have run big companies

Take a powder, bringing folk down to their commie knees.

Without their wise experience the tides no longer lap,

The birds forget to use their wings, the trees run out of sap.

The sun no longer rises and the moon is quite erratic

And dust begins to gather in the closets and the attic.

That's when Galt, the hero, leaps into the fray at last

And shows the people CEO's must be the upper caste.

With a shout of pleasure all the people do agree

(and that's why this is fiction, not a work of history.)

This book stirred up a ruckus when it came out in the Fifties;

Ms Rand was feted as among the notables and nifties.

Exalting greed and markets free of all hidebound constraint,

Made her to all the moneybags a literary saint.

You'd think that in the interim we'd wise up just a bit,

And never fall for such self-serving novelistic ****.

But there you are, the book again is topping all the charts –

Bamboozling the youngsters and befuddling old farts.

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