Working Class Poems | Examples

Freedom the Lie

It's all in your head. 
It's all in your mind.
One day, you'll be dead.
One day, you'll be hard to find.
We say, "we wish we could fly."
We say, "Give us some time."
They'll work you till you die,
They'll work you till you commit a crime.
Freedom is only in your head.
Freedom is only in your mind

working class poet

Working class Poet
It had been a long day at the factory but
when there was a break, he jotted down a few words
and during the day, it became a poem- he always
had a pen and block ready, words were so flighty he may
forget what he wanted to write if he waited too long.
Coming home, told his wife
I wrote a whole poem today  think it`s a good
his wife asked if the poem was about her, no he said it was about a tree
the one at the entrance of the village.
His wife walked back to the kitchen
 the slam of the door was sad.
The poet came out of his cocoon and said to his wife:
All my poems are about you, my muse, with you at my side
I can`t write about the old tree at 
the entrance of the village.
They kissed and made up,  both lived long and had a good death
blissfully unnoticed by the world.

Sibling Working Class

Jane the eldest of three sisters, and the Tadpole was given an earlier debut. Hails the middle sister of extraordinary charm and endearinng demeanor that exemplifies an industry--I find lacking.

This be the common thread of most aspirants, forewarned a cobsweb be drawn innocence. She played Kristy McNichols bike friend on 'Friends', edged by a mom's hope.

I am glad that I met Louise Foley, Jane's sister, on what turned out to be my final drive to Carmel, as my own life was getting to be a Full House.

The working class

All I see is sadness up on people's faces long hours away from family- yet employers say they are family friendly

Working Class Slaves

I walk these many streets

I walk this path of stone

I hunger for a life

That I can call my own

I'm a slave to my job

I'm a slave to this town

I'm a slave to the system

That strives to keep me down

I owe money for my house

I owe money for my car

I owe money to the bank

I'm left with pennies in my jar

If your life's the same as mine

I know just how you feel

We have one thing in common

We're just a cog in this wheel

The Rock

My pen write
My heart speaks 
Of how my soul appreciate that one strong man 
Full of dust from head to toe 
Pushing those heavy wheelbarrow 
To earn for a bread 
Whose hands are those it is his family that awaits, awaits for him to share the bread 

My eyes have seen 
Of that wonderful woman 
Who’s turning black not only black but black as charcoal 
For the sun has no mercy for her beautiful skin 
Day and night with the bucket on her head 
She also believes a day in her life will be brighter than yesterday 
That she will no longer inhabit the wrinkles on her face and the cracked legs in her beautiful body.

Angel of the North

Built with rusted steel 
Steel mined by the workers’ hands
Faceless above crowds 
An angel not from the blue
But built with man’s blood and hope

Working Class Hero

Working class hero
With an untold memory
On the steps of hell

Stupid Working Class

The stupid working-class 

It is odd is it not, the working-class 
have no idea of how powerful they are.
Can you think of a world where no one cleaned the office?
Build roads and keep street passable?
Yet we treat them with contempt.
Can you think of a couple who needs four jobs?
to pay for the ever-increasing bills
While rich thanks to their toll by yachts?
The most obscene of all, we buy magazines with photos
of them and their riches, and we admire them,
Not for one moment do we think we could make them
penniless and homeless buy stopping work

Native Steel

I am the American worker
coal fired for refined thieves
on the thirty first floor.

My secrets rest
roadside beyond the guardrail
where ditched alleys
lead to rowhouses.

A list of porches
repeating  to each other
the economics of wear.

My secrets shuffle
moon-side with motors
in gear.

A scourge of trucks
that drone and stab the night.

My dignified rails drive
mountain passes, but fade
in stories written backwards.

I belong to the wheels
whipping the black spell
of trains.

The scuff strummin' Guthries
and Union Maids,
Debs,
Robeson,
The destination of all trains;
Railroad Bill.

I am the American worker
searching the seasons
for decent belongings,
secret rhythms
            last whistles,
Mt tempered
             native steel.

Published Black Buzzard Press - 1982

The British Working Classes

He wakes very morning
to trudge through his day
a labor of love
or just bills to pay?
it seems that forever
he's been burdened with debt
and retirement a time to reflect
or regret?
She awakes every morning
to labor all day
kids are in day care
there's really no choice
no other way
the bank accounts empty
and pay day seems so far away
I think that this government
has lost the plot
think of the people
who ain't got a lot.

Working Class Heroes

The world is full of working class heroes
Made up of every gender, shape and size.
Inspiring everyone, their strength bestows
They become the backbone of enterprise.

My father was my working-class hero
He passed on his ethics, in his workshop.
Urging each person to learn and to grow
Without them, trade will slow, maybe stop.

Working class heroes all make the world run
Stand side by side, sometimes on bended knee
With pride in their work, as fathers have done
The spine of humanity, you’ll agree.

As they stand tall, waiting, learning their trade
Working class heroes are lovingly made.

Below the Working Class

Greatest is the servant’s slave to the pope
the good looking still carries a dry throat
such living is washed with a costly soap
to break a jinx right from ancestral coat
value’s attached to every mess and rag
people of this class just live and manage
a rare light may shine but will face the lag
progress so dragged despite all courage
in wealth’s province, they are total outcasts
ride the train of existence with no seat
in another side the world runs so fast
as the weak attend poverty’s retreat
life has distinguished with its shovel
but the low still has something to marvel.

Working Class Poet

Working class Poet 

It had been a long day at the factory but
when there was a break he jotted down a few words
and during the day it became a poem- he always
had a pen and block ready words were so flighty he may
forget what he wanted to write if he waited too long.
Coming home told his wife
 I wrote e whole poem today I think it`s good
his wife asked if the poem was about her, no he said it was about a tree
the one at the entrance of the village. 
His wife went back to the kitchen the slam of the door was sad.
The poet came out of his cocoon, said to his wife:
all my poems are about you, my muse with you at my side 
I can`t write about the old tree at the entrance of the village.
They kissed and made up they both lived long had good death
blissfully unnoticed by the world.

Working Class Mind

He's stuck with a working class mind
And grooves in the working class grind
And walks down the working class street
Where the mud sticks under his feet.

Always working to pay the rent
Or the interest on the mortgage lent
Living for the football game
So the weekend just grinds the same.

Then Monday comes around too soon
Five more days on the merry go round
Where boredom numbs his joyless mind
And the rhythm of life has no rhyme.

But Friday night is slowly on its way
And Celtic's playing on Pay TV
A few pints will help him freeze his mind
And help sustain his working class grind.

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