This poem in detication to my friend =[

Hark to the winds,
and list to the seas,
give a mouth to the earth,
and an ear to the bees.

Here lies a song,
to those who listen well,
for who knows what secrets,
that time has to tell?

List to the skies, nay, list now to me

Hear from the man, who once yearned to be free.

Was at end of fall, in hard ’29,
trying to live was already so tough,
when the winter hit deep,
and the cold bit rough.

Black Thursday had come,
and along with it fell,
the gold gravy boat,
that had been know all too well.

The living got tougher,
the stock market fell,
banks called for money,
life became Hell.

30 Billion dollars,
straight down the drain,
fleeting so fast,
away with the rain.

3 Million people were stuck out of work.

Apples like candy,
Just 5 cents apiece,
but even these prices,
began to increase.

More money still needed,
just 4 billion more,
A dollar a day for veterans old,
one-twenty five for work over shore.

The people grew vicious,
great havoc they brought,
destroying a store,
taking the stores that it bought.

A hundred policemen,
Their score so told,
To bring down the riots,
A hundred men bold.

The living got harder, yet harder that day.

Immigrants were spit on,
sent back to their land,
they called it “deporting”
by who’s foul hand?

This land was as theirs,
as much as it ours,
this so called “Free land”
kept behind bars.

The deporting wore on,
the numbers did tell,
from the brunt of the hate,
six thousand had fell.

More hate wreaked on innocents,
no more just a store,
the Ford Motor company,
four workers no more.

They paid in blood for those they never wronged.

The next step to bat,
the R, F, and C,
money was given,
for people to free.

The shackles of poverty,
broken by wage,
the money so worked for,
breaks away the cold cage.

The people were scornful,
poor help it did bring,
“The Millionaire’s Dole”
no more than a sting.

More help would be needed,
if sought out to pull,
the people of America,
out of their self made hole.

Deeper and deeper the pit was to grow.

The grim warriors,
who fought overseas,
twenty thousand men,
for money to seize.

“Bonus money” 4 Billion told,
the money was wanted,
by both vets and the house.
they both kept their views, still yet undaunted.

The bill was passed,
but only in house,
the senate soon felled it,
the flame they did douse.

One hundred thousand,
to get the vets back,
but some chose to stay,
alas and alack.

Two of that number would never see home.

Violence erupted,
The police and the vets,
two veterans fallen,
both had their regrets.

But ‘lo and behold,
A miracle here!
Delano the heir,
the people did cheer.

The first royal order,
four days for the bank,
the plan was down solid,
the people to thank.

For they were the ones,
that gave their own vote,
for without those same people,
no chance for Delano, no chance so remote.

But now the plan was to be set in motion.

Emergency Banking,
no room for gold,
the standard now gone,
the plan to unfold.

And next to the plate,
the CCC,
more and more jobs for
quite a small fee.

Still goes Delano,
and more organizations to come,
too many to list,
yet just more than “some”.

More rules and laws,
just for their own good,
made by the government,
by them they stood.

The most of the work, was still far ahead.

Six million slaughtered,
A pig genocide,
the people then protest,
what life was denied?

“To balance the prices.”
well what price of life?
what kind of money,
for six million to the knife?

And now nature’s wrath,
soon to unveil,
coming to peak,
just next in this tale.

Three days of storms,
blowing the soil,
stealing it from farmers,
who then could not toil.

What price did they pay for the life they had wasted?

A magazine says,
that depression is over,
but only for them,
not for the people, they I condemn.

As ever he works,
more signing is done,
Delano is striving,
for the war to be won.

Though his weapons
don’t include sword or spear,
the pen was proven much mightier,
than the sword those years.

Almost in chains,
the workers still going,
they carry on harvesting,
as the paintings are showing.

“Ragged, Hungry, Broke”, they keep with their work.

As his term ends,
he gets right back in,
his second term starts,
his battle to win.

More violence to come,
from a workers’ strike,
the police clash again,
was the last time alike?

Another ten down,
this story so tells,
ten people buried,
to the sound of church bells,

But as of all tellings,
this one must end,
the last of this tale
is just past the bend.

The final lap of this tale so fine.

His second now done,
he goes on to his third,
unprecedented, yes,
but in need those are blurred.

He urged to aid Britain,
the “Lend Lease Act”
to help with the problem,
when Britain was attacked.

The people supported,
elected him again,
proof of the loyalty,
his person contained.

When the united states finally
joined the world war,
the were rid of the depression,
gone was the sore.

List to the trees,
hark to blue skies,
what of this tale
of the fall and the rise?

The story now ended,
the poem now told,
the epic has gone,
the end has unfold.

The End
_________________
Forever Quit- Banned Self