The sciolist on the run for his share of fame, Burdened Ragpickers in the street; Their role in the society never counted, Abligurition-taking away their share of life, they bleed. Death now mounted.
Whose life we lead? Anyway, I mock mine every day, For the well beings are well fed; These autodeist Well-fed in their glorious bed, Poor’s Perennial fight to live against welcoming death.
Today the mall sells meats in grams; Hardworking labors paid only alms; The hands that packed those pieces are worthless, Take mine to those slums, Their drapetomania and those guns?
Let the weather decide the rain, Let your deeds surpasses all pain; Let the moon decides the night, And your journey, the ride, Let our children take some pride.
