The Poor
From the ground I seem to raise
Staggering towards the green pastures
Blood oozing out of the unhealed wounds
Wounds from the piercing thorns
A slim cow is what I am
To be fat is my aim
But why the fats still fight over my handful pasture?
No answer seem to come my way
To the gold mines I dream to be
Where I dwell only stones in my sight
For how long will I need a walking stick?
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