The Common Laborer

Must thy strive from day to night?

And whose so moil, 

ordained only for indigence.

Art thou the one whose sweet fruits,

so-do-him- forbid, wilt?

Pluck, does the man with silver tapestries,

yet thee labor, whilst thou wither away.

For, whom is to rest,

while there is the affluence to furnish?

Their fire places, their golden chariots,

the roasted turkey, the minted silver,

the opera, the piece, 

the actor, the actress,

the king, the queen,

the president,

the government.

God! Grant spare us your sanctity!

The ink, the quills,

all the pens!

The harpsichord, the piano,

the orchestra, the maestro! 

thou cannot clothe thou’s children,

but thee master shall bare dressings of:

lace, silk, never forget the ribbons,

powder for the hair,

shoes with golden buttons!

All for the duchess,

God! Grant us our justly dignity!

God! Grant spare us your sanctity!

Thou shall live upon what the rich man feeds the dogs,

Thy whispers prayers in the night,

for the providers must stow away,

Art thou  the disgrace of the sun?

Mother earth scorns thy fruits,

so when winter breaches upon old fall,

thou are banished!

God, does not no one pity thee?

‘Thou’s children’ will watch,

watch and laugh as thou dance upon the streets,

smitten by taxes:

as they laugh thy shall dance,

Thou hast sold them the candles,

crafted one piece by piece!

They shall burn them until midnight,

perhaps might they spare a six pence?

Yet while they roll their eyes about,

however, thou hast never had the last laugh.

Their turkeys,

there fish,

who cooked it,

who baked it?

who roasted it so tender?

who fried it?

who made those pies?

God! Grant spare us your sanctity!

Lest upon the streets to whither,

slowly trickle away!

The taxes snap thy bare heels,

the higher arch must have silken socks,

they will spare thy there spit,

yet they cannot spare a cent?

who sewed the sole?

who sacrificed the cow?

Who made the leather?

who crafted the buckle?

In midst, primavera thrive, thou.

Who welds?

Who mines?

Who carves?

Who paints?

Who cleans? Who dusts?

Ah God spare us justice.

Who spares their milk?

Who sculpts, who carves?

God! Grant spare us your sanctity!

God! Grant us our justly dignity!

God, does not no one pity us?

The most common laborer. 

Author's Note

I used an image of the eighteenth century to reflect what sadly is becoming again. The poor working just to work, and some the rich living off the fruits of the the laborers without giving anything in return. I originally intended this poem to be a chorus aria for an opera I was going to write, and I was going to attempt to properly translate this into French, yet my French isn't that good, nor is my knowledge of the orchestra.