toil

Our toil for tawdry ends—must end;
It eats us bare by little bites
To feed the fullest more at once
Than one could sup a million nights.

Fiends pour pollution from their heights
And say there's treasure trickling down;
And all the while they steal our fire
And burn the future to the ground.

Not one among them's honor-bound
To anything but profit-seek—
In seeing fiends as saviors come,
We only rend our outlook bleak.

These oligarchs believe us weak—
Perhaps we are, just one-by-one;
But when we—all together—speak—
And fight!—their reign will end its run.

Coercive labor's setting sun
Could be a sight our eyes behold:
Our toil can turn the world our way—
If we will only be so bold.