Occupation

We seek a trade to supplement our means
but seldom find contentment in a chore,
to grunt and sweat for money like a whore
can make one sore, and thoroughly demeans
a people’s pride, like prisoners of war,
our island nations hurt by death machines
coercing us to help them make more beans
so they don’t have to mingle with the poor.
Behind the concertina we commune
our furtive whispers tricky to discern
though truly, they don’t care what we might say
their condescension makes them quite immune
and tragically, the only way they’ll learn
is when we have our liberation day.