I fear the workers: they writhe in bristling grass
And wormy mud: out with dawn, back with dusk
Depart with seed and return with fat-bursting fruit
And I eat the fruit
And still they toil: at boiling point
In head-splitting noise and threatening saws
They suck their energy from slimy cassava
And age-rusty taps: till they make a Benz
And I ride in the Benz: festooned
With striped rags and python copper coiling monsters
While the workers clap their blistered hands
And I overrun their brats
They build their hives: often out
Of the broken bones of their mates:
And I drone in them - ‘state-house'
Them, ‘collegize them, officialize them
And I . . . I whore their daughters
Raised in litter-rotting hovels
And desiring a quick quick high-high life
To break the bond
And I tell the workers to unite
Knowing well they can't see hear or understand:
What with sweat and grime sealing their ears
And eyes already blasted with wielding sparks
And me speaking a colourless tongue
But one day a rainstorm shall flood
The litter-rotten hovels
And wash the workers' eyes clean
Refresh the tattered muscles for a long-delayed
Blow