I think the chuckle is all mine,
and if it ain't then nothing's lost
as some of us drink noble wine
and others shudder at the cost
thus are condemned to drink inferior
and cheap, half rotten stuff from casks
perhaps they know we are superior
and even if they don a mask
they still remain right near the gutter
from where they aim to, some day rise
yet those of us condemned to stutter
would, in this circumstance, be wise
to find some other field to plow
something requiring no skills
because, my friends, that would be how
they found that gold in them there hills.
Blue collar work is what we need
and most are born with half a brain
which they then use as ego feed
as envy drives them quite insane.
Their lives are lived in the pretense
that they are high society
which to the world makes little sense
but absence of sobriety
can numb the mind and fog the brain
perhaps they will not ever know
why life in this conceited lane
will just be show and, someday, blow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.