No rhyme nor reason
signifying nothing but last week's garbage
factory hands producing factory goods in mass production
when they go low, we remain high looking down on fodders
always hungry, always working, they have no silver spoon to eat
serfs to the feudal lord milling in the grain fields looking for seeds
your sadness is from birth, but you can't be trusted with solid silver
and you do not have the manners and grace to sit at the top table to dine with me