The Smoke filled foundry,
mighty furnace roar,
for every penny that is earned,
a pool of sweat upon the floor.
The workers have no power,
therefore doomed to patience’s dread.
Workers invisible,
they are the living dead.
In the captive stench,
of factory Pollution,
a thought within their mind
of violent revolution.
And it will surely come,
like a thief in a future night.
Like on Damascus road,
a blinding piercing light.
But for now,
the banker and the millionaire
will reign as
Queens and Kings,
Knowing that they’re safe,
because of,
the silence of the underlings.
(by Chris Pitts)