The mouths are closed
       Obedient proles
Destitute trials reap the fear we always know
    Treasure troves, a place for morals to hide
Willful to shift to an honorable life on this side
To a judge who cannot be faithful
To promise justice
For our lives
To kink the top brass
Shoveling food out of the mouths of peasants
And coal into the hearth for fire
Fire forging hate and manufacturing consent in the form of arms
But no alarms for my friends in high spaces
You have the aces
We only have our spades
We will grind ourselves away
Just a little a time, we die so disgracefully
In the garden of  disdain
Where the little people were too quiet

To rise above their pain