Bustin' My Chops

Why should I be bustin' my chops?
Sweating for somebody else's crops
Where payment is grossly under-fair,
Where dignity reaches the edge and drops
Like a hammer crashing a pane of glass
In a World obsessed by position and class.

A struggle as old as primordial man
Where strength and aggression are played hand in hand
And survival had only two classes, it's said;
Divided between the quick and the dead.

But these days it's money that seems to divide
Where the classes are structured, how we decide
Who has worth, what has meaning, who gets the bone
With the meat neatly picked; who ends up alone.
Worshiping God on an altar of green
As immortal worth becomes ever so lean.

But truth is not fleeting.
Please, make yourself clear.
Our struggles are not always as they appear.
The classes are self-made and self-imposed,
And nothing the freehearted ever need fear.

For happiness crosses all boundaries and classes.
Contentment survives and thrives with the masses.

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