I feel sorry for the contented people
Who don’t know how unhappy they must be,
The Flatlanders and unaugmented people
Oblivious to their own misery.
The man who grafts all week for a mere pittance.
Six, even seven days just to survive,
To higher levels he has no admittance,
Nor does he even know what he’s denied.
The woman who, her brief, long faded beauty
Now just a distant dream, is forced to slave,
To feed her family and do her duty,
Her life a drudge from cradle to the grave.
And then there are those who know their position,
Who never seek to improve...how could they
Walk side by side with men of erudition,
And noble birth? Their lot is to obey.
These are the folk who spout the propaganda
That work is the salvation of the masses,
Despising those of low birth who seek grander;
I feel so sorry for these pompous asses.
But at least their misery is contented,
The saddest folk of all are those with eyes
To see what they could achieve...how tormented
Are those who try so hard, yet never rise.
[The above was first published in Wrong Side Of The River.]
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