They lived in glass houses…
…but they couldn’t see anything.
They were rich, but their lives were incredibly empty.
They hadn’t worked very hard in many years, but their work product was strewn about the countryside like the wreckage of a thousand airline crashes.
They made moderation and compromise the very center of their culture…
but the thing they could not tolerate, indeed, could find no way to accommodate, was the man who actually stood, uncompromisingly, for any political principle… any principle at all…for all was to be negotiable. Everything was for sale.
The sharpest of them could recognize a fellow traveler within minutes of striking up a conversation… or categorize him, instead, as .. “indigestible”….or evaluate, in the third instance, the uses to which his credulity made him subject; his mind… his back… his pocketbook.
And so they made merchandise of sheep.
The Party, in fact, under their tutelage, resembled a large sheep ranch, or a southern plantation before the Civil War; the more efficient installations producing bushels of white fluffy stuff.
Marketable white fluffy stuff, to be sure. And, of course, those facilities weren’t economically viable without the occasional bloodletting.
Sheared of conscience, herds of cattle,
Ushered through wide gates of evil,
Mostly silent, some still bleating,
None of them still wild.