The walk on naked soles
To make hay and sow
Their knees crumble
Along the path with grumbles
They wail in empty stomachs
Shout for better hides
Tears for loved ones
Loss to the war
They sail the ship of trouble
Still pray for it not to tumble
But does prayer without action works
Or it is just to be seen as over-work
Funny we both live on fertile soil
But we the multitude toil
We are in limbo
Such as a bimbo
They care not of our distress
Because they don’t want a stress
They turn deaf ear
So our wailing not to hear
We are hungry, O’ye Butterfinger!
We are famish, o’ye light finger!
We will strike with our happy trigger!
Our revolt shall be your end.
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