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THOSE CRAZY OARFISH


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Have you ever witnessed the anger of the good shopkeeper, James Goodfellow, when his careless son happened to break a square of glass? If you have been present at such a scene, you will most assuredly bear witness to the fact, that every one of the spectators, were there even thirty of them, by common consent apparently, offered the unfortunate owner this invariable consolation—"It is an ill wind that blows nobody good. Everybody must live, and what would become of the glaziers if panes of glass were never broken?"

 

Now, this form of condolence contains an entire theory, which it will be well to show up in this simple case, seeing that it is precisely the same as that which, unhappily, regulates the greater part of our economical institutions.

 

Suppose it cost six francs to repair the damage, and you say that the accident brings six francs to the glazier's trade—that it encourages that trade to the amount of six francs—I grant it; I have not a word to say against it; you reason justly. The glazier comes, performs his task, receives his six francs, rubs his hands, and, in his heart, blesses the careless child. All this is that which is seen.

 

But if, on the other hand, you come to the conclusion, as is too often the case, that it is a good thing to break windows, that it causes money to circulate, and that the encouragement of industry in general will be the result of it, you will oblige me to call out, "Stop there! your theory is confined to that which is seen; it takes no account of that which is not seen."

 

It is not seen that as our shopkeeper has spent six francs upon one thing, he cannot spend them upon another. It is not seen that if he had not had a window to replace, he would, perhaps, have replaced his old shoes, or added another book to his library. In short, he would have employed his six francs in some way, which this accident has prevented.

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They say the game is the belly of the beast

Blunts for fingers, and hollow-tips for teeth

Wire-taps for ears, Nike Airs for feet

Blasphemy for prayers, a system for a heart, rap music for beats

Heroin for a son and he's married to the streets

Crack pipes for lungs, and he never sleeps

Just spies, with dice in his eyes

Loves life cuz he likes when it dies

With a baking soda soul, he cough up pleasure

Clothes made out of dollar bills that he sewed together

He knows; he's clever, jealous his house

All the liquor that's poured out, goes right in his mouth

Rides around on a stray bullet

With prostitutes, pimps, dope dealers and killers tied to it to pull it

A TV in his head, stripper slides down his legs

And he's known to ride around wit feds

And he's out there...

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  • 5 months later...

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