My poor man, in chains

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.