He built your castles,
Laid brick in your pyramids,
Pulled wire through your studs.
Worked with closed eye lids.
What is it that separates you?
Money, power, and fame.
Stood on your pedestal
Looking down with disdain.
You came out of your office
With nothing but a towel wrapped.
You asked me how the job was going,
No privacy, no shame, I’m trapped.
A fat half naked rich man, proud.
Let me tell you how you are perceived:
Boisterous, obnoxious, and ignorant
Of the messages I tried you to receive.
Nonetheless, he worked on your castle.
Tearing down the old, putting up the new
Committing his blood, sweat, and tears
In your condo castle with a second story view.
The working man, secretly Marxist
Secretly wanting to walk away
But unable. Marxism is a dream.
A far reaching fog gone by midday.
Oh what a dream to do what he pleases
Day in, day out no 8-hour-sacrifice.
But folks, I know the secret of Marxism.
It exists in this corrupt landscape.
Not for you or me, not the working man,
Only for those who build castles and pyramids.
I want to know what you, the reader, thinks. Consider leaving a comment and I will reply!
Primitive Poetry 
This poem has one of the most amazing ‘screw the rich’ subtexts. I read this post the other day that said the secret of capitalism wasn’t the lack of resources, but rather how we’ve deemed poverty and subjugation to the powerful as a ‘normal’ part of life. Your poem made me think of that again.
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The ugly beauty of reading your comment is that I do it while I am sitting in a work truck, feeling like a burden to a millionaire. Like I owe him something? A quality of work? While he shows no respect to me. Screw the rich, they use their money to derive status and as you say, make subjugation normal.
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