Called Their Class, ljóð frá 8. ágúst 2022.

Sometimes if they feel so fine,

furthermore and almost gone.

Never heard, they need their screen,

newer bullshit, poisoned wine.

So they say it's green,

someone from that other kind.

If I even mind...

almost done...

 

Don't speak, lest you leave the plain,

lofty goals are made for banks.

Don't hear what is called their class,

kicking in what's other's train.

Even in a mess...

all I need... so truthful shoe,

Doubtful when I do...

dropping ranks.

 

Silence is my shameless pride,

since they heed no word I speak.

Others will not work for you,

wages low and set aside.

Till they make it true,

troublesome in paradise.

Not found something nice,

neither reek.

 

Efforts they are all in vain,

easy how they let you down.

Valid? No, just worthless clay,

victory in sickness, pain.

Drifting from each day,

damages are never full.

Boasting like the bull,

blissful clown.

 

Striking workers still in place,

stop your wrongful pettiness.

Heed their words and hear their claims,

harvests lost, can't find no trace...

Never heard their names...

newer come in groups of ten...

Did I see the den?

dumbbell guess.