it is things we need to live that need our money
that our toil is multiplying every turn.
tell me you, what is the point of having bosses
if they do not give the workers what they earn?

do not work to fill the pockets of your bosses
for who sets the catch around here, sets the cost
tell me you, what is the point of having money
if it only means our stolen labour lost?

tell me you, what is the point of having borders?
who can tell me how much earth and sky they own?
tell me you, what is the point of hoarding treasure
when you cannot, lonesome, eat all you have grown?

by tomorrow, or tomorrow, we’ll be ready
all the people will be free, or they’ll be dead
we will ration out the milk of human kindness
and we’ll grind the bones of billionaires for bread