Pump the Brakes
*by Lichen Throat
(Ohne Ruhm entry)*
House of children, with their necks stuck in the rails,
Or tumbling down the stairs, head over heels.
Eldest daughter, with an ink-stained ponytail,
And all so pale and thin from uncooked meals.
Listen, mother, charity begins at home;
Watch your kids before your scant attentions roam.
You send letters; everyone will know you tried
To help poor Africans grow coffee beans.
Thoughts of distant natives make you misty-eyed,
So you practice telescopic philanthropy.
Your big house out in the English countryside
Makes a fine example of entropy.
Open your eyes, Mrs. Jellyby;
Help someone you can actually see.
Pump the brakes on spreading British ways around.
Fix the broken pumps they drink from in your town.
Hide your right hand; put your shoulder to the plow;
Local people need what you can give.
No good comes from seeming busier than thou,
Or telling distant strangers how to live.
You drink coffee while your squalid children fight.
No one reads the endless letters that you write.