So poor is the man in his pointless toil,
For by standard virtuous he must be,
Never reaping the rewards from the soil,
In the darkness of this world’s horrid fee.
And should he be so inclined to wander,
To a higher pursuit of the finite,
And to so allow his mind to ponder,
He shall be struck by a sinful spotlight.
Encased by envy disguised as repulse,
Shamed by the nobility and their lot,
Pressured to pray in temples false,
And to recant ideals they long forgot.
So as day turns to night, and night to day,
He sells himself whole in the black market,
At a price set by others borrowed ways,
Disappearing in his empty casket.
