Come The Revolution Poem by Mary Champion

COME THE REVOLUTION
(A Tribute to Wolfie Smith)

All we ever get from them are scraps -
unwanted, surplus grains that they toss out.
Like Lazarus who ate the rich man's crumbs,
we're scrabbling for the morsels that they shed -
so desperate we often have to fight
to gain our share of their unwanted bits.

Our overburdened hearts are all in bits,
struggling to get by on meagre scraps,
just keeping ourselves fed's an endless fight.
There's no compassion if you're down and out.
They live in mansions, we just have a shed.
We often must make do with mouldy crumbs.

They hoard the cake while we pick up the crumbs,
they won't agree to share the finest bits.
Oblivious to all the tears we've shed,
the likes of us must make do with their scraps -
the stale and tasteless junk that they throw out.
Bewildered when they sometimes see us fight.
 
But starving men are oft too weak to fight,
barely strong enough to lift the crumbs,
you'd think that some of them could work it out -
common sense reveals the easy bits -
a workforce that's reduced to eating scraps,
who fear they're first to go when jobs are shed,

who know they'll be evicted from their shed,
who lack the wherewithal for legal fight,
who's only source of sustenance is scraps,
who now may be denied the smallest crumbs,
must long to break the system into bits,
rise up against the rich and throw them out.

So chuck them out -their blue blood must be shed
seize their tender bits, now it's time to fight
let them feast on crumbs - our discarded scraps