A hill on a hand
with these craters,
pouring milk of pus
blended with a gloomy
blood; lord! what dirge
of heart, it sings unsweet
as beats of sadness.
survival in the face
of a helpless mother
is a dream crying in the sky
of legitimate children
with no wings to go pluck
their stars; survival is far;
lord! where is your answer?
and labour becomes
a FORM of WORK where
a brilliant sun is a prisoner
in grey dust, grey thoughts
from a mean master as
merciless one thousand,
five hundred hell of
a 'heaven' job.
labour is the helpless tears
of an angry battered mum,
chained with heavy corruption
by bastards as a crushing head,
killing grimly, billions of a neck.
labour is the many slaves
stressing and sweating,
suffering and cursing
under a FORM of WORK
whipping with cruel insult
of being lazy; just imagine!
stressing, sweating
suffering, cursing;
and billions grow fatter
with weeping muscles
and wailing waters;
grow bigger and richer
of laziness working hard
to find wings to the sky
and pluck their stars of dreams;
laziness working hard
but to grow more wings
for over bloated heads
already twinkling their stars
and would rather the brilliant sun
stress and sweat
in grey dust, grey thoughts
of a hill on a hand
with craters pouring milk
of unhappy pus
and gloomy blood.
