While aversely obliging
decadent demands
of the reigning, endorsed affluent
an internal voice howls
interposingly loud
and insists I really shouldn’t:
“pitiful, weary worker
Coerced, uncaringly ordered,
and damned by upper class rules
will you ever tire
of being a servile martyr…
of acquiescently singing the blues?”
Yet indignantly yielding I remain,
for on the altar of entrenched conformity
sacrificed is this entrancing sound
of truth and reason by an ear-piercing,
reticent silence en masse.