Waste treatment plants,
you wipe it away from your brow,
soil on your soul,
you get down and dirty,
no mater where you go,
suck the life out of way would lads,
marching to the sounds of history,
you are free,
working just for me,
ring me up,
till I am dead and done,
Oil on your flesh,
you wipe it away from your brow,
soil on your soul,
dug a hole a mile down,
marching to the sounds of slavery.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem