by Joseph Farley
Orwell knew the work horse’s fate,
Labor for years pulling wheeled carts
And the iron blade of the plow.
Old and sick the glue factory waits,
While the pigs who run the show
Sit on the lawn in afternoon sun,
Raising cups of tea to salivary lips,
Oinking over pastries and tasty tidbits,
Firm in their belief that Darwin
Blessed the rich as much as god,
Giving them the right to rule and whip
All that toil beneath their snouts
For a hard won day’s pay.
*Joseph Farley is the former editor of Axe Factory. His books include Suckers, For the Birds, and Longing for the Mother Tongue (March Street Press).