Morning’s when I dress to fulfill my job
The pay is meager…the labor most hard
I oft’ receive looks…”that man is a slob”
Green calloused hands beautifying some yard
The working man’s lot…regressed much of late
His presence a reminder to the elite
‘T was not pampered hands once made country great
“Wait here, my good man…please wipe your feet”
Nightfall arrives…I don snappy attire
Swells on the town, they do seem most impressed
Four syllable words…thrown on haughty pyre
My status that morning, they couldn’t have guessed
‘T is morning again, more ragged clothes
Shortsighted eye…travels length of the nose
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