A tale of the times,
of unspeakable crimes.
The rise of his word,
above the screams can be heard,
from the tops of the buildings
where they watch for the killings.
The poor on the ground,
what a muttering sound.
Confused and alive,
no one hears their cries.
They’re not the poor of the poor,
they’re the poor that did more.
They worked all the hours,
grasped hold of the power.
They bettered themselves,
looked after their health.
And the man on his throne
did not see as they roamed,
as they heard and they saw,
what it was to be poor,
in this world full of law.
So they rose,
when?
nobody knows.
They stood side by side,
refusing to hide,
held their heads up on high,
no longer they sigh.
They screamed through the tops,
battled the cops.
There was one there was two,
the numbers soon grew.
A revolution of sort,
some of them caught
held up in a cell,
still they did yell.
The coming was soon,
at midnight? at noon?
The poor had a voice,
the poor made a choice,
they were poor,
for sure,
but they knew what they knew,
were no longer a few.
Together they stood,
as they always should
an abundance of mass,
they had listened in class.
They stood for it all,
they refused to fall,
the poor are the poor,
one day,
no more.
blossomsworld 