‘Prole Parade’ | emilyshotgun | Poetry
Proletariat hustle fueled by blood, sweat, and muscle, fist over wage, make the rich man’s wallet bustle. A blue collared noose, worth and freedom reduced, to a time clock rendition of a life left unused. Slaves to the cause, of production driven jaws, that consume hope and shit out plastic copies of Gods. As the debt piles higher, money and greed soon transpire, to the beat of the shackles dragged by the weary chain gang choir. Exhaust fumes and dirt, calloused hands move the earth, overtime stretches on through the dawn keep it moving, put in work.