A Hand’s Turn

Raise tired eyes up to the sun,

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Sweat hangs heavy ‘pon the brow

Labour reaps what labour sows

But of his toil, fruit shall not know.

Taken by those who rule, pompous

And fat on others work.

They call it fair and just;

The kleptocratic ruse

Yet the iron fist shall ever wane

‘til working man works for working man’s gain.