In the immortal words of Popeye, iamb what iamb

I am a corp, and so you see
I can be what I want to be.

If I decide that you can’t live
It’s cause my Ms are relative.

My actions are protected by
A legal fiction, my oh my,

That since I am incorporate
I’ll kill and get away with it.

One man can’t kill: you’d tan his hide.
But two men? They can genocide!

A corp can sell you tainted veal,
Use child labor, lie and steal,

Stick its hand inside your pocket,
Pander on the open market,

Act like WorldCom, or like Enron,
Profit, e’en, from Armageddon,

And come out smelling like hydrang’
Because it’s on the Stock Exchange.

I’m afraid that I don’t buy it,
But henceforth I will be quiet.

I’ll go back to Founding Daddies,
LD rules, the VB laddies,

I won't say another word
About this rez, which is a [insert word here that rhymes with “word” that indicates something less than desirable that would have destroyed the magic of my poetry if I had done it myself.]