The smoking mouth spits on the hard day’s
work when the poor man asks, scared,
for the remuneration.
This poor man runs of the rich man’s Rottweiler.
He’s one ill bred man in the name
of civilization, cautiously rotting and breeding
to their rich despise.
This poor man snuffs the bullets into his esteem.
The shack of the oldie will be the graveyard
but who knows where the worms will feed
on his unclaimed meat.
This poor man dies without a buddy’s breath.
The land’s changed, the brothers’ changed but
my man’s still in chains, incapable of bluffing,
incompetent of running.
My poor man walks but he has no eyes.