The Proletarian

THE PROLETARIAN The ordinary people we are The common people of the abandoned street Homeless not Hopeless in our quest Looking up to the Forest Lords We are kicked left and right by them Helpless not voiceless We are the dregs of the Society Seen in every rejected areas in the land Faceless and clueless of who we really are The Hoi-polloi lost In pains of the leaders Our kinds are not better in anything involving the society yet they used us as tout to kill ourselves The land detest and chase us here and there Hope we speak each day yet no hope seen Among our kind In Their daily agenda We are treated and killed like the funeral ram But we stitch our heart with smiles Our laughter clapping in the dawn of their ears Our stomach may speak harshly to us but We perservere speaking kindly and warmly Their eyes despises our existence Their mouths speak wrath against us Who shall speak for us----the voiceless? Where shall the messaih come from Israel or jerusalem? Mighty men had fallen in Jerico and Gomorahh Great gladiators had be slaughtered in Rome and Greece but we look close to the dawn in the west Clothing our already made cupped desires in a beam smiles. Though our Lives a Bottled Oil in a freezer Though our drive a playing gesture in our hands We believe, we dream, we shall be seen among Men not fallen in The ditch of limited trend but We tread on the surviving route days to come.