Worker
Eight or more hours you work everyday,
to earn your weekly wage, opening it,
look in disgust with what you made.
Therefore, off on strike you go, to cause a little fuss.
The PM beams a fat face,
from your television screen,
say you must go back to work,
and live within your means.
You look at him angrily,
saying, “you silly fool.
I’d be better clothed and fed
if I lived off the dole.”
It is all right for him,
with his thousands a year,
but what about us poor workers
on forty pound a week,
whose monies gone,
before we even, see it.
That does not tweak.
Join the Common Market;
they herald their mournful cry.
It is the first stop to paradise,
but that was just another lie.
Food went up left, right and centre,
thousands landed on the dole.
While parliament got fatter,
and we were the ones to fall.
Taxes rose like tyrants,
to keep the bread from our mouths.
The poor kids lost their school milk
to these educated louts.
Live within your mean they say,
we do not give a damn,
we are the ones in power.
We are going to milk this land.
Milk the land they did by heck,
from every mother’s son.
A PM we never voted for
sits like a king on his throne.
I do not want an election now;
I’d probably never get in again.
The Chancellor of Exchequer,
he lives next door,
sits preparing a budget,
that none of us is looking forward for.
Prices rise daily just to keep us poor,
seems they are out to starve us,
that is all we are sure of anymore,
and trying to bar the bailiff from the front door.
Consideration for the men who work,
to earn a decent pay. There isn’t any there,
all they are out for,
is to see you in an early grave.
You speak out against them,
they call you commie scum,
but they are the ones
with the red flag flying from their bum.
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Respect The Earth!
why do we always mistreat
the people who do our farm work?
why would we starve the people
who pick our crops?
why would we deport the only people
who are willing to do the work?
and you wonder why your kids
think that all food comes
from an aisle in the grocery store!
gas prices keep rising,
food prices keep rising...
what happens when the trucking
industry goes down?
what are you going to eat then?
we need to as much as possible
go back to raising our food.
at the very least support
your local farmers...
no GM seeds!
do it the old way, the right way.
pay your farm workers,
pay them well!
get out and do the work yourself!
stop the dependency on a failing system!
let the people who want to work, work!
respect the earth, and it will respect us!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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No Beer, No Work
The shades of night was fallin’ slow
As through New York a guy did go
And nail on ev’ry barroom door
A card that this here motter bore:
'No beer, no work.'
His brow was sad, his mouth was dry;
It was the first day of July,
And where, all parched and scorched it hung,
These words was stenciled on his tongue:
'No beer, no work.'
'Oh, stay,' the maiden said, 'and sup
This malted milk from this here cup.'
A shudder passed through that there guy,
But with a moan he made reply:
'No beer, no work.'
At break of day, as through the town
The milkman put milk bottles down,
Onto one stoop a sort of snore
Was heard, and then was heard no more—
'No beer, no work.'
The poor old guy plumb dead was found
And planted in the buryin’ ground,
Still graspin’ in his hand of ice
Them placards with this sad device:
'No beer, no work.'
poem by Ellis Parker Butler
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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No Law In Hand
Politics has become cheap game
Only country gets bad name
Unfair practice goes on
Fair name is always blown
How to share dais with their presence?
Why do we hate them at once?
Why do have they thick skin?
What is the motto behind political win?
Why poor not rise in rebellion?
Why do they watch merely from pavilion?
They have made it democratic field
Where only means available is to yield
Political means to amass wealth
Nation suffers poor financial health
Big or small countries suffer a lot
Poor nationals are simply in between caught
What all tricks do they employ to win election?
Dirty game is involved for shady selection
Religion is pitched and cast lines are clearly drawn
Money plays part and rest people are withdrawn
This can still be understood
Even if they promise you free food
Promise stars in day time
But it is to secure dynasty rule for life time
They will install any one they like
Prices may soar and any time hiked
Who cares even if you die or live in misery?
Their luxurious life is must and necessary
Believe me precious food grain is rotting in open
Poor has nothing to eat and for belly to fill in
Prices are sky rocketing and beyond reach
Only influential can survive to become rich
How can you name parliament as an institution?
Where open flight can be seen with continuation
Large numbers of representatives are law offenders
We are the culprit who act as medium for such grabbers
Still time is there to behave and act
Take no law in hand but react
Show them way towards door
Let sovereign state work for the down trodden and poor
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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‘He came unto His own, and His own received Him not’
As Christ the Lord was passing by,
He came, one night, to a cottage door.
He came, a poor man, to the poor;
He had no bed whereon to lie.
He asked in vain for a crust of bread,
Standing there in the frozen blast.
The door was locked and bolted fast.
‘Only a beggar!’ the poor man said.
Christ the Lord went further on,
Until He came to a palace gate.
There a king was keeping his state,
In every window the candles shone.
The king beheld Him out in the cold.
He left his guests in the banquet-hall.
He bade his servants tend them all.
‘I wait on a Guest I know of old.’
‘’Tis only a beggar-man!’ they said.
‘Yes,’ he said; ‘it is Christ the Lord.’
He spoke to Him a kindly word,
He gave Him wine and he gave Him bread.
Now Christ is Lord of Heaven and Hell,
And all the words of Christ are true.
He touched the cottage, and it grew;
He touched the palace, and it fell.
The poor man is become a king.
Never was man so sad as he.
Sorrow and Sin on the throne make three,
He has no joy in mortal thing.
But the sun streams in at the cottage door
That stands where once the palace stood.
And the workman, toiling to earn his food,
Was never a king before.
poem by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge
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Crushed By The Wheels Of Industry
Call me in the morning just before the breakfast show
Well watch tv and analyse the weather
Before we go to work well have planned the day ahead
Well while away the working day together
Work all day or work all night its all the same
If you want to play
Some are nurses
Some steal purses
Some are workers
Some are not
It is time for a party
Liberation for the nation now!
Crushed by the wheels of industry
Theres a party going on thats going to change the way we live
But how do we know weve even been invited
Now the invitations waiting and the table is reserved
So just play it cool and dont get excited
Work all day or work all night its all the same
Will we ever change
Its vocation or vacation
Some are workers
Some are not
It is time for a party
Syncopation for the nation now
Crushed by the wheels of industry
Breaking in the future just before the week is up
They can do it but its going to take some money
Have what you desire if and when you see the fact
They will lead us to the land of milk and honey
Work all day or work all night its all the same
If you want the pay
Some drive tankers
Some are bankers
Some are workers
Some are not
It is time for a party
Liberation for the nation now!
song performed by by Heaven 17
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Crying For Bread
"Please, lady! please pay my Ma for her sewing;
The suit fits you splendidly--that you'll allow.
Oh! don't say tomorrow! I see you are going;
But this will not hinder long--please pay me now.
Ma work'd all night for you! ev'ry minute;
Now she lies groaning with pain in her head;
And there by the pantry (with not a thing in it),
Sits poor little Theodore crying for bread!
Poor little Theodore crying for bread!"
"On! driver, on! they have all gone before us,
And I will not be late at the ball," Beauty said;
And wintry winds echoed her answer in chorus
With poor little Theodore crying for bread!
Poor little Theodore crying for bread!
"Please lady! please pay my Ma for her sewing;
I'll run and get change for you. Don't call me bold--
But how could you dance tonight all the time knowing
That we were left suffering, hungry and cold?
Ma looks so wild! she keeps calling for Daisy;
That was the name of my sister that's dead.
Oh! what shall I do, with my Ma going crazy,
And poor little Theodore cryiing for bread?
Poor little Theodore crying for bread!"
"Please lady! please pay my Ma for her sewing;
She must have some medicine--that let me buy.
Now, don't speak of beggars! 'tis money you're owing:
Do please, pay me part of it--else we must die."
On the wheels roll'd, and Fidele returned weeping;
Ah! in her absence a spirit had fled,
And morning light found her a weary watch keeping,
With poor little Theodore crying for bread!
Poor little Theodore crying for bread!"
poem by Henry Clay Work
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Despair Of Uncertainty
The shadows of sunshine cross my desk,
work like a prison surrounds me.
Whom do I turn to? To unlock the discord,
of the depressive uncertainty that surround me.
Millions line the dole queues,
as jobs fall daily to accounting cuts.
Life becomes a struggle for daily bread;
bills grow like mountains,
assaulting the conscious brain.
Fists hammer on front doors for monies owing,
disturbances cause neighbours
to look through corners of curtains,
gossip is rife on family’s shame.
Millions spent of foreign aid,
but what about our own impoverished land?
Who is going to give our own a helping hand?
The sad look pleading, in hungry despair.
Who hears these voices call,
only the unfortunate such as they.
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Down & Out In Paradise
Dear mr. president
I live in the suburbs
Its a long way from washington, d.c.
Had me a job
Working for wages
And they forgot about me
Cant draw unemployment
For some unknown reason
My kids are hungry
Ive got four mouths to feed
I go out everyday lookin for siutable
Employment
Do you think, theres something
You could do for me
Cause im
Chorus:
Down and out, here in paradise
Down and out, and im on my knees
Im down and out, here in paradise
Looks like the milk and honey
Done run out on me
Dear mr. president
I used to be a dancer
Got a little bit too old
So I became a secretary
Married as man
In las vegas, nevada
And ten years later
He run out on the kids and me
Some said, I was pretty
But those days are over
Now, ive no place to live
And im out on the streets
Oh, mr. president
Can I tell you a secret
I never ever thought, that this could
Happen to me
Cause im
Chorus:
Down and out, here in paradise,
Down and out, and im on my knees
Im down and out, here in paradise
Looks like the milk and honey
Done run out on me
Dear mr. president
Im just a young kid
Im in the fourth grade
At riley elementary
My mom and dads been actin funny
Im not sure
If it aint got someting to do with me
My daddys always drunk
My moms a babysitter
And I dont like the russians
Cause I hear, they hate me
Dear mr. president
Can I ask you one question?
When the bombs fall down
Will they hurt everyone in my family
Yeah, yeah
Chorus:
Down and out, here in paradise
Down and out, and im on my knees
Im down and out, here in paradise
Looks like the milk and honey
Done run out on me
song performed by by John Mellencamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Id Rather Be Rich
Id rather be rich, it sounds a little funny;
If diggin a ditch would earn me lots of money,
Id dig like a fool in the land of milk and honey;
Where everythings cool, provided you have money, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Id rather be rich, just short of being greedy;
Im eager to switch, to hell with being needy.
Id rather be rich, the truth of cash is tragic,
The systems a bitch, but money works like magic, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Money makes the world go round;
Buy and sell it by the pound;
Bitter truth that I have found:
Food to eat, shoes on your feet,
Maybe some heat, you live with defeat.
Bridge:
Money gets you justice, money sets you free,
Money makes it possible to be or not to be.
Money is the power, money is the key,
Sad and so unfortunate, but real as it can be, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Id rather be rich, than what the other choice is;
My thumb out to hitch, or riding in rolls royces;
cause I aint no fool in the land of milk and honey;
Where everythings cool until you lose your money.
song performed by by Chicago
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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New year resolutions
We all do them every year
to stop drinking too much beer
lose some weight go to the Gym
take up cycling go for a swim.
Be more caring be more kind
learn a new skill open the mind
get to know the neighbour next door
do voluntary work and help the poor.
Stop smoking and eating crap food
be more patient, tolerant, less rude,
learn to listen instead of just talk
and take the dog out for a daily walk.
Try to get to work early instead of late
smarten yourself up you look like a state
get your teeth whitened they look really bad
stop dancing at parties you look silly and sad.
And stop wasting money be thrifty and save
take up a daring hobby climb or go down a cave
go on that trip before it's too late
and pluck up the courage and ask her out for a date.
But alas resolutions don't last very long
our willpowers weak and not very strong
our resolve quickly breaks and begins to sag
and in a week your having a drink and a crafty fag!
poem by Kevin Halls
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Land of the Free (c) 3-29-08
Land of the Free home of the brave
Land of disease home of the slave
Freedom of religion Freedom of speech
Freedom of press and freedom to breach
Freedom to steal freedom to take
Freedom to carry guns and Freedom to break
The laws of the man and the laws of the word
Freedom from peace but to still use the bird
The only home of brave and Land of the Free
The land who rules based off democracy
Freedom to starve and Freedom to be poor
Freedom to break and enter someone’s door
Freedom to lay off workers and close off jobs
Freedom to take what they want and to rob
Freedom of abortion Freedom of extortion
Freedom to own land and give everyone their portion
Freedom for action by any means necessary
But what their picture of that can really be scary
Freedom to wage war without our consent for our hours to be spent
Freedom to take our money then make us pay rent
Land of the prospering riches and of those who don’t care for the
People who live in the FREE old America
Copyright 3-29-08 ©® Corey Threet
PLEASE COMMENT!
poem by Corey Threet
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Crushed By The Wheels Of Industry (Extended Dance Mix)
Breaking in the future just before the week is up
They can do it but it's going to take some money
Have what you desire if and when you see the fact
They will lead us to the land of milk and honey
Work all day or work all night it's all the same
If you want the pay
Some drive tankers
Some are bankers
Some are workers
Some are not
It is time for a party
Destination for the nation now!
Chorus:
Crushed by the wheels of industry
Crushed by the wheels of industry
Crushed by the wheels of industry
Crushed by the wheels
Crushed by the wheels of industry
Crushed by the wheels of industry
Crushed by the wheels of industry
Crushed by the wheels
Work now!
Call me in the morning just before the breakfast show
We'll watch TV and analyse the weather
Before we go to work we'll have planned the day ahead
We'll while away the working day together
Work all day or work all night it's all the same
If you want to play
Some are nurses
Some steal purses
Some are workers
Some are not
It is time for a party
Liberation for the nation now!
Chorus
There's a party going on
That's going to change the way we live
But how do we know we've even been invited
Now the invitation's waiting
And the table is reserved
So just play it cool and don't get excited
Work or day or work all night it's all the same
Will we ever change
It's vocation or vacation
Some are workers
Some are not
It is time for a party
Syncopation for the nation now!
Chorus
song performed by by Heaven 17
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Factory Girl
She wasn't the least bit pretty,
And only the least bit gay;
And she walked with a firm elastic tread,
In a business-like kind of way.
Her dress was of coarse, brown woollen,
Plainly but neatly made,
Trimmed with some common ribbon
Or cheaper kind of braid;
And a hat with a broken feather,
And shawl of a modest plaid.
Her face seemed worn and weary,
And traced with lines of care,
As her nut-brown tresses blew aside
In the keen December air;
Yet she was not old, scarce twenty,
And her form was full and sleek,
But her heavy eye, and tired step,
Seemed of wearisome toil to speak;
She worked as a common factory girl
For two dollars and a half a week.
Ten hours a day of labor
In a close, ill-lighted room;
Machinery's buzz for music,
Waste gas for sweet perfume;
Hot stifling vapors in summer,
Chill draughts on a winter's day,
No pause for rest or pleasure
On pain of being sent away;
So ran her civilized serfdom --
Four cents an hour the pay.
"A fair day's work," say the masters,
And "a fair day's pay," say the men;
There's a strike -- a rise in wages,
What effect to the poor girl then?
A harder struggle than ever
The honest path to keep;
And so sink a little lower,
Some humbler home to seek;
For living is dearer -- her wages,
Two dollars and a half a week.
A man gets thrice the money,
But then "a man's a man,
"And a woman surely can't expect
"To earn as much as he can."
Of his hire the laborer's worthy,
Be that laborer who it may;
If a woman can do a man's work
She should have a man's full pay,
Not to be left to starve -- or sin --
On forty cents a day.
Two dollars and a half to live on,
Or starve on, if you will;
Two dollars and a half to dress on,
And a hungry mouth to fill;
Two dollars and a half to lodge on
In some wretched hole or den,
Where crowds are huddled together,
Girls, and women, and men;
If she sins to escape her bondage
Is there room for wonder then.
poem by John Arthur Phillips
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A Last Appeal
KNOWING our needs, hardly knowing our powers,
Hear how we cry to you, brothers of ours!--
Brothers in nature, pulse, passions, and pains,
Our sins in you, and your blood in our veins.
First in your palace, or last in our den,
Basest or best, we are all of us men!
Justice eternal cries out in our name,
What is the least common manhood can claim?
'Food that we make for you,
Money we earn:
Give us our share of them--
Give us our turn.'
Landowners, bankers, and merchants, we make
Out of our lives this new wealth that you take.
Have we earned only such pitiful dole
As just holds worn body to desolate soul?
When that soul is bewildered each day and perplext
With the problem of how to get bread for the next,
Is it better to end it, as some of us do,
Or to fight it out bravely, still calling to you--
'Food that we make for you,
Money we earn:
Give us our share of them--
Give us our turn'?
Ever more passionate grows our demand--
Give us our share of our food and our land:
Give us our rights, make us equal and free--
Let us be all we are not, but might be.
Our sons would be honest, our daughters be pure,
If our wage were more certain, your vices less sure--
Oh, you who are forging the fetters we feel,
Hear our wild protest, our maddened appeal--
'Food that we make for you,
Money we earn:
Give us our share of them--
Give us our turn.'
Hear us, and answer, while Time is your friend,
Lest we be answered by God in the end;
Lest, when the flame of His patience burns low,
We be the weapon He shapes for His blow--
Lest with His foot on your necks He shall stand,
And appeal that you spurned be new-born as command,
And thunder your doom, as you die by the rod
Of the vengeance of man through the justice of God.
'Food that we make for you,
Money we earn:
Give us our share of them--
Give us our turn.'
poem by Edith Nesbit
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This Is Payment Price This Poet Pays
My friend is a salary man luckily gainfully employed
five days a week for eight hours a day he earns his pay.
I also for decades worked my days for weekly monthly pay.
I studied hard put in extra time to fully earn my worker pay,
years sped by I worked and worked to earn hard earned pay,
now for a time a time and a half I do not work this way.
I write I write each day by day or through long night.
I work far harder than I did employed in salary fight.
I live on savings hard earned to earn a right to write.
I charge not chance reader read or read not just as you like.
I work I sacrifice to give gift of love as free as stars above.
I give in time in thought in words in wisdom I give in love.
poem by Terence George Craddock
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There Must Be An Easier Way
To earn one's living there must be an easier way
Than working in a menial job for menial pay
You age so fast your hair prematurely gray
And you must work hard till your retirement day.
When you ask the boss for a raise his answer no
For a raise in pay you must have more to show
The unemployed are many and the jobs are few
And there's plenty more to do the job you do.
At 5.30 a m each work day from bed I rise
Before daylight has lit the morning skies
Then long drive to work in smoky old work van
Such is the lot of the common working man.
The chap next door seems better off than I
He does not work yet life he does enjoy
Whilst I'm at work he rest at home in bed
And he doesn't look deprived or underfed
With six year old son and a non working wife
He live an easy and a stress free life
And I've heard it said that he's never worked a day
But good luck to him is all that I can say.
I do not receive or seek sympathy
For there are many far worse off than me
But living life would be a lot more fun
If I did not have to rise before the sun
poem by Francis Duggan
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Hilda
I know a woman she is forty three
And she still search for an identity
I'm still a stranger to myself she say
And in the maze of life I've lost my way.
Retrenched from her job earlier this year
She does not know where she is going from here
She now live on welfare a quarter of her wage
And her barrier to employment is her age.
With job seekers half of her age she must compete
And she feels that by time she has been beat
At forty three on the wrong side of time
And employers see her as well beyond her prime.
She was a young woman twenty years ago
And Hilda herself still doesn't seem to know
Where her life's going to, she feels a lost soul
And a bleak looking future on the dole.
I know a woman she is unemployed
And out of work to her means loss of pride
And though on her birthday she was forty three
She still searches for an identity.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Work
Work is what we have to do
to put food on the table
we work for years and years
that is until we are unable.
We are asked at school
what we want to be?
I remember telling the teacher
that I want to play football for Coventry.
There's all types of work to do
like in an office or a building site
if your lucky you can do sport
be a Boxer and get paid to fight.
But most of us don't do that
and often we do jobs that we hate
like working in a horrible factory
starting early and finishing late.
But some workers love their jobs
and rarely ever miss a day
they enjoy being there so much
they'd probably work for no pay.
Work is a big part of life
so best do something you like
earn vast amounts of money
buy a flash car instead of a bike.
So be happy wherever you work
no matter what job that may be
but most of us want to retire early
that's why we keep on doing the lottery!
poem by Kevin Halls
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The Sunken Crown
Nothing will hold him longer—let him go;
Let him go down where others have gone down;
Little he cares whether we smile or frown,
Or if we know, or if we think we know.
The call is on him for his overthrow,
Say we; so let him rise, or let him drown.
Poor fool! He plunges for the sunken crown,
And we—we wait for what the plunge may show.
Well, we are safe enough. Why linger, then?
The watery chance was his, not ours. Poor fool!
Poor truant, poor Narcissus out of school;
Poor jest of Ascalon; poor king of men.—
The crown, if he be wearing it, may cool
His arrogance, and he may sleep again.
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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Get up, go to work, go home, go to bed
Get up, go to work, go home, go to bed
Is this what life's all about I said?
Work, work, work every single day
Just to earn enough my bills to pay.
Surely life must be much more than this
Someone tell me what the purpose is.
Then, 'You can have life abundantly'
I heard the Lord Jesus say to me.
'I am the door: if you enter in
then your new life with me will begin.
These things of earth will just pass away
but the life I give is here to stay.'
So I turned around and followed Him
and my life was no longer so grim.
I still have to work to earn my pay
but He gives a purpose to each day.