Classic Poem

There are fifty million dollars in the room.
The splendid bellow of the barytone
Smites on a note to topple down a throne,
Mussorgsky boding forth an empire's doom.
There is lava in that song that can consume
Wild nations, and artillery's rhythmic drone,
Rebellion yelling, and wild trumpets blown,
And a blood-boltered Tsar dragged to the tomb.

So all the bare-backed women sigh applause,
Silk rustles, and the diamond collars glint,
And vacant eyes smile wide, as if no hint
Of horror hung upon the resonant air,
Of white throats cut, perhaps, not without cause.
It must be fun to be a millionaire.