The Working Class Poem by Eric Cockrell

hard calloused old hands,
back bent with time and work.
feet beaten and worn,
old tired eyes that still twinkle.

i love the working class.
am more at home
with truckers, farmers,
and factory workers,
than politicians and priests.

the lives built brick by brick,
silent years of sacrifice.
hard lines of faith and worry,
and moments of gentle caring.

the hand extended,
the heart that's honest.
the love of passion,
and blowing off steam.

the cook pot, and the table,
set for whoever walks through the door.
neighbor standing behind neighbor,
the saturday night fire,
and the sunday prayer.

i love the working class...
the people that built your cities,
paved your roads,
that have grown your food,
and made your goods...

so what the hell are you doing to us?