Dinner scraps, primal deathtraps.
Life’s meal is the class struggle,
and some of us are left starving.
We are the movement of the masses,
a sleeping colossus running on
corporate time.
Dinner scraps, merciless steel traps.
We are measured only as commodities.
We give our lives as wage chattel.
We make our homes or lose them
on the edges of a time clock.
Dinner scraps, societal collapse.
Our mortal scraps are scattered
across toxic bleeding lands.
Our festering, bleeding homes
destroyed for private profit,
now Superfund sites, haunted,
abandoned to enrich a scattered few.
This is nothing new.
Dinner scraps, toxic time lapse.
Planetary devastation from
multinational demolition,
from riotous monopoly capital,
from robotization and trauma.
The entitled elite shrug off their
labor expropriation with nihilistic
indifference and sadism.
Dinner scraps, deadly mishaps,
we exit at our final abyssal gate,
fading as ancient, weary stars.
Our caste defines our station.
Our race marks off our place,
our life and death beneath the oligarch.
Our liberation will erase this hierarchy
only with our unified latent leftovers,
our dinner scraps of unified force.