Poverty Police

By Author Unknown

The poor are the workers, and support of our world of greed,
ask them what they want, and it's always what they need.
A little security, a bit of content;
something to tid them over, before the next month's rent.

The family is split,
one working all day... one working all night.
both fighting for the chance for life to finally be right.
Sitting and waiting in front of their comforts,
just trying to forget all of life's troubles.
To each their own, a dream world of new reality is made;
one to a book, the other to a television,
the last to a computer, to let him rest in indecision.

All have a delusion, something to live on;
a thing needed for welfare, and a thing they'll need to breathe.
No need to exist, but our instincts remain;
the harder we work, the lower we get,
when the end is seen, nothing but regret is the only thing to remain.

Give me your comfy, your rich, your useless leaders;
while our country burns in timeless repeating.
A dead nation of pain, leaving the world a stain,
left in starvation in a shadowed reign.

We'll exist to better, the world we dwell in;
even if we can't afford, the air we may try to breathe in.
We need to live, even through we'll all die;
as long as we don't drift away, without any life in mind.

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