Oh, you many market places,
Mocking the wretched state-
Of all my fellows of the fields;
All the fruits we’ve yet to feast.
For just across the boulevard,
There is comfort out of reach.
Luxury is for only those who’ve
Schooled beyond grade eight.
And though I dearly love my kin,
The green that helps them live-
Their roots they hold me to the Earth,
Trading my future for but hapless dirty work.
So in this land of freedom’s creed,
Come watch my struggle,
Come feel my pain.
Watch as my bleeding fingers stain;
The cucumbers,
The grapes,
The grain,
The endless groves of citrus fame.
Then cast aside my lifelong toil,
And lift your golden goblets up.
Fear me as I fear the gas,
That floats above and farms but cash.
Look away and care no more,
I am but a child,
But not child’s lore.
My labor ruled by homegrown lords.