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2 months ago · · Poetry
As ruthless industries produce,
more wealth than can be seen or used,
the humble beggars on the street,
are left to starve and rot and whore.
For what shall we, the common lot,
not trade for petty blight and rot,
as swelling sins of greed and lust,
yet grope our lives forever more.
When markets, valued more than life,
are yet the cause of endless strife;
few owners granted power over,
many broken, pit'less slaves.
Such men of money, granted naught,
but what man yet has ever sought,
an endless pool of eager workers,
yet reduced to endless slaves.
And so the song of sixpence sung,
forever cling to workers' tongue;
the sins of endless greed and lust,
we're yet to learn forever more.
As men so quickly are deceived,
despite how so they starve and grieve,
their minds yet tainted with belief,
that owners, wealthy, need yet more.