The Loot People

We’re so funny. Here’s what we do—

In lots of places, lots of times—

We help a few of us get rich,

Stinking rich, and celebrate them

For being better than the rest—

Chieftains, queens, wizards, divine kings—

Then when these wonders we worship

Die like the commonest of us,

We build them extra-fancy graves

And fill them up like treasure chests,

Maybe slaughter numbers of beasts

Or ourselves—children, concubines,

Warriors, slaves—so they’re more lavish

Yet, so the great one’s corpse will have

Food, servants, and sex after death—

And we construct tombs cleverly,

Burying, walling, concealing,

Adding traps, tricks, feints, and curses.

Then we go away, and we say,

You know, that king’s mound is sacred.

Potent. Haunted. Don’t disturb it.

And then, on a fine moonless night,

A squad of us drills into it,

Digs right in, rips right into it,

And makes off with all the treasure

We can find and carry. Maybe,

In time, a few squads have at it.

Still, the locals say it’s sacred,

Potent, haunted. Something’s in it.

At last, the archaeologists

Have a proper excavation.

Sigh for what the grave robbers wrecked

And looted, never to be known.

What’s left goes in a museum

Funded by wonderful chieftains.

Locals farm around the ruins.