My fodder is the metal
of a machine sprouting work,
my days are the soul
of a dirty factory.
Those slapping belts above my head
are the song
of dead cattle chaining live men,
For I am a cog
of universal toil.
I am a tree
cut into firewood,
I am a spike
of a broken wheel;
I am all the things
that Wealth says I am not
For I was born
in Poverty's stinking stable
and rented to Capital;
and Capital
pays me wages
that shrink in an envelope