Oh to be a rich man in the storehouse of society or in the the cellars where sobriety is but a ***** word,
and the words are drinking Bollinger that trickles through the silver sieves and no one gives a second thought
to those, whose labour bought the feast.

But they don't care,not in the least
the nature of the beast runs in their veins and frames the have not's,pigeon holes them,
what men these riches make that would serve to overtake the moral due to me and you,who slave away for men like this most every day, excepting Sunday when we go to pray so we may lay more fat underneath their belt.

They,
who've never felt the touch of ice that spikes the hair and freezes breath,
for whom death is but the interlude,
between the courses chewed
and we,
who have never seen such food that ends up in the pigswill bin
will watch in awe and later in the cold of lamp lit living rooms will tell the story of what we saw,
and not be
believed.