the working class isn’t in a room

you don’t have a philosophy
some kind of way to piss off me
the working class isn’t in a room
the warp and weft like a theft from the loom
throws light and shade around a final doom
and who is weaving their way to the tomb?

we have birds hanging high in the sky
like an idea of murder
lady liberty would deny
she’d been sold, but who heard her?
no more lonely huddled masses
no more working classes

trying to return to the golden age
birthing lots of holden rage
there are no more catchers in the rye
let them fall off the cliff and die
an age for the wage slave birthed from another lie
that they used to sell everybody by

trust a politician like a scorpion on a ride
anything that gets taken by a tide
is coming back to you with some wear and tear
politicians pretend that truth isn’t there
you have to be aware
and view the ballot box as a potential snare

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