A little town called Freedom
once stood out on the range
when a wagon steered
into the square
with the banner, “Chopenhange!”
The wagon was well worn,
its mule overcome with mange,
still the wagon stopped,
and set up shop
to sell some Chopenhange.
The Barker started calling, “Oyez!
People, what will you exchange?
Absolve your Sin!
Ring Justice in!
All with some Chopenhange!”
He motioned to a row of bottles
dusty, wondrous, and strange,
“I'll take anything
to which you cling
for an ounce of Chopenhange!”
The people offered up their treasures,
stupored, babbling, deranged:
Pride, and Health,
and Guns, and Wealth,
for a taste of Chopenhange.
The Barker took all of it gladly,
as this crisis he arranged.
And know: he lied.
Air was inside
the bottles of his Chopenhange.
The people stood there dumbstruck,
could they all have been shortchanged?
But The Barker weaved,
“You must believe
for there to be some Chopenhange!”
They lost their property and power,
every deed to every grange;
Propaganda,
Utopia,
Elusive Chopenhange.
And here the story endeth,
Freedom gone, not rearranged.
So drink your cup,
you bought it up.
Here's to your Chopenhange!
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