They toil in hardened soil
Father and son
Sun up to sun down
Callous hands bleed
Sweat runs down wrinkled faces
Baptizing the ground
Many acres left to plough
No end in sight
Their fate lies in grains of dry dirt
Soon, seeds planted,
If God delivers the rain
It will grow,
For us, no end in sight
“the struggle of working classes
Begin the day we are born,
Ending the day we die.”
In between, our existence,
Weighed and measured by elites.
As lifeless and uncaring as the dirt we hoe.
Like men before us
We will wear out and die
Making wheat for the elite’s daily bread
Seven days a week, 12 hours a day
No time to play, that is a sin
Keep working men tied to ploughs
Until needed for war,
Fighting other working men
Freed from their yokes
To fight unjust wars
Designed to give the rich property and titles
More workers die in factories;
Women, children, and men,
Slave labour, exploitation, starvation wages
Using poverty and oppression as chains
Binding workers to cold machines.
Look around you today brothers and sisters
Has much changed??
Corporations more lethal
Managing by stealth,
With no concern for people’s health.
Oil gushes in the Gulf, ocean turns black
BP unconcerned for their lack
And far away, a father and son
Plough a barren land.
For them, there is no end in sight.