The Gospel of Theft

The tools of soft fascism

You say the state should run the show.

That liberty has got to go.

You say that markets cheat and fail—

That freedom is an old wives’ tale.

So bring the tax. Expand the dole.

Bleed the part to feed the whole.

You want more roads? Then raise the toll.

You want more meds? Then pay the role.

You say, “If something really matters,

It must be backed by men with batons—

By men with guns and laws and power.”

That’s your idea of helping others.

You cry, “The rich should pay their share!”

They do. And more. But you don’t care.

Did you know?

Half the country pays no tax.

Not a penny. Just sits back.

While ten percent—the working top—

Funds nearly everything you want.

Yet still you rage. Still you demand

More taken from the working hand.

And you?

You love big plans—but dodge the fare.

You praise the tax—then don’t play fair.

You file deductions line by line.

Then raise your voice to seize what’s mine.

If you believed in all you preach,

You’d send your own check in—no speech.

You list the good the state has done—

But where’s the war that’s truly won?

Social Security’s set to collapse.

The VA’s care is full of gaps.

Public schools? Can’t teach or read.

Yet still you say we need more need.

You think that living side by side

Gives you a right to reach inside

My pocket, pull my wallet free,

And call it “fair” or “equity.”

But when the state takes what I’ve made—

That isn’t help. That’s theft relayed.

And Congress? Don’t get me started.

Bloated. Spent. And broken-hearted.

You scream if spending ever slows—

But cheer when every deficit grows.

You think compassion means more debt.

That kindness means a nation set

To bill the future, skip the price—

And hope our children pay it twice.

Enough.

You want the world made right?

Then give your own, and earn your fight.

But leave my labor out of reach.

And don’t you dare pretend to preach.

If fairness is your claim to fame—

Then every hand puts skin in the game.

By Greg McNeilly