I shake my fist in anger,
Looking up at the high-rises:
Those palatial penthouses,
The homes of those whom I despise.
What wrongs have they done me,
But to profit from my destitution—
Or so shall I perceive it—
My curse is upon their good fortune.
I long hope for the day they fear,
The revolution will come for them,
I’ll trample them under my boot,
And then their riches will be mine!
News of self-made men grown rich—
Met by their friends’ glad rejoicing—
Is to me heart-wrenchingly painful,
For this I save my most bitter tears.
For I cannot comprehend how
A man can gain such affluence
Without causing ten more to become poor,
To get ahead he’ll shove others aside.
I won’t accept charity from them,
Petty hand-outs to sycophantic greed,
Why should they enjoy plenty,
When there’s folks like me in need.