"Security cannot exist where the worst of dangers, the danger of poverty, hangs over everyone's head, and where the alleged
protection of our persons from violence is only an accidental
result of the existence of a police force whose real business is
to force the poor man to see his children starve whilst idle
people overfeed pet dogs with the money that might feed and
clothe them."
=====================================

From the the Preface to "Major Barbara" a play by G.B. Shaw.

EDIT: Ok, it's from early 20th Century England, the Fabians joined the Labour Party and lost whatever balls they may have had, so it's a little dated.

BUT: Early 20th Century England and America are EXACTLY what's being pushed by the Bush Junta as we speak, the death of the New deal/the Great Society (Which was limited in "Greatness" IMHO) is upon us. Weep or Fight.

...the cycle of poverty going...Yep, you know what it is...

Poverty is good, it creates incentive, right?

... in a time of diminishing expectations:

"In other countries poverty is a misfortune--with us it is a crime."
--Edward George Earle Bulwer-Lytton

and:

"For every talent that poverty has stimulated, it has blighted a hundred." --John William Gardner

Go figure. :shrug:

There's always a lurker who'll eventually push the button.

Hopefully one that'll explain it's answer too.

It's not as much fun as the "dickhead" response but I'll take it.

It should not surprise you to learn he is one of my favorites. "Major Barbara" is an excellent play, and the Preface to it an indespensible work of political exposition.

...its caliber anymore (I mean as a literary response to criticisms, I just haven't seen anything else quite like it).

Major Barbara is a magnificent play, and I adore Shaw, but I tend to drift toward Ibsen when the drama bug bites.

Edit: You're welcome!

There is no time to discuss or debate
what is right, what is wrong for our people.
Time has run out for all those who wait
with bent limbs and minds that are feeble.

And the rain falls and blows through their window
and the snow falls and blows through their door.
And the seasons revolve mid their sounds of starvation.
When the tides rise, they cover the floor.

They come from the north and they come from the south
and they come from the hills and the valleys.
And they're migrants and farmers and miners and humans,
our census neglected to tally.

And the rain falls and blows through their window
and the rain falls and it blows through their door.
And the seasons revolve mid their sounds of starvation.
When the tides rise, they cover the floor.

And they´re African, Mexican, Caucasian, Indian,
hungry and hopeless Americans.
The orphans of wealth and of adequate health,
disowned by this nation they live in.

And with weather worn hands on bread lines they stand,
yet but one more degradation.
And they're treated like tramps while we sell them food stamps
this thriving and prosperous nation.

And the rain falls and blows through their window
and the snow falls and blows through their door.
And the seasons revolve mid their sounds of starvation.
When the tides rise, they cover the floor.

And with roaches and rickets and rats in the thickets,
infested, diseased and decaying.
With rags and no shoes and skin sores that ooze,
by the poisonous pools, they are playing.

In shacks of two rooms that are rotting wood tombs
with corpses breathing inside them.
And we pity their plight as they call in the night
and we do all that we can do to hide them.

And the rain falls and blows through their window
and the snow falls in white drifts that fold
and the tides rise with floods in the nursery.
And a child is crying, he's hungry and cold,
his life has been sold, his young face looks old.
It's the face of America, dying.