The Dust You Shake Off Your Shoes Is Other Men Poem by Patti Masterman

How we can bristle up at almost nothing
Is more proof, of the barbed-wire sinew'd bone,
Born hollow-core, and likewise brutal-hone;
Vexing the babe and degree'd man, both alike-
While our civility stays out on loan.

How we gladly roll in the dust, before becoming
Just more dust, that on empty roads is running,
As the feathers fly, and our jack-boot feet are drumming-
Until we're old- and in grey streets,
Lifes blood's running.

The world driven on by willpower's all we know,
And though there's kings, that a king's-ransom only buy,
On homeless ones, there's colder winds will blow;
But they still see blue skies, till the last day of life-
No money no power no degree then, to tell us why.