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Is This What It's To Come?
written by: Jack Wolfe Frost
Is this what it’s come to, my struggles and strifes,
Breaking my back for taxes to pay rich men's lives,
They grew fat on my labours the bastards in charge,
All the money I earnt, they took at amounts large.
I cry in my sleep after all that I’ve done,
Ne’re a slob scrounger, sat on me bum,
Great callused hands, and muscles a sore,
I scream and I shout nobody hears my great roar.
It this all that’s left of my years of toil?
A rotting dead cow and dry crusted soil?
Enough I can’t take, my life any longer,
So where do I go? This I do ponder.
The rich do they laugh, as I hang my head,
I wish those greedy bastards, yes I wish they were dead,
My bags they are packed and I’m ready to go,
Out to wherever my mind it may flow.
Not a penny you will get, no more from me,
I’m going to a land, where all folks can be free,
I’ll tread my long road where e’re it may roam,
But where ever it takes me, I know I’ll find home