Do I work the soil
Or does the ground work me?
I cater to its every whim,
That’s how it has to be.
I coax the living from the dead.
I kill the living to feed the land,
Only to be called a stupid bumpkin
By those who even realize I exist.
My fists are always sore
From a hundred oozing chores.
My children wear the eyes
Of prisoners doomed by fate.
My ancestors died to protect
The kingdoms of the overpopulated.
In their hate
They would stab us in the throat
With that obscene catchphrase
“One man, one vote.”
How do I cope?
I pray a lot
In churches one creaking step up
From the crates in which I ship my wares;
My cares I must retain.
No one wants to unburden me of those
Though I often wish there were such thieves
Ones not wearing suits and lies
Or wielding Capitalism like a scythe:
I often rue my life.
But it’s the only one I’ve got.
Better to die under the sun (SOOO HOT)
Than to live like the tiniest Russian doll
Chasing numbers on a hard, dark screen.