In a dire shortage of willing labor,
they call upon moles for the wealthy,
with no other apparent feasible choice,
quite essential, but not seen as worthy.
Harvest buried dull subterfuges,
to split some fragile naked fingers,
tipping over the hospitals’ scales,
and crack your healthy yellow teeth.
Pitch to colored print newspapers,
organize gaping shady survival gangs,
paid talent engaging in lone fisticuffs,
striking dates for anticipated hours.
Excavate posh dirty shanties,
through smoky plated crypts,
rounding stunted curls of trains,
with a pick on a studded leash.
Knock under a heavy rich waste,
rolling in their golden horned rocks,
shower bareback with opals of sand,
breathe in deep your silky powder.
Climb from their darkened mausoleum,
wrestling with weary cross traffic,
sifting among dusty cigarette butts,
toward the withering armed box office.
Drop your pockets out for measure,
as the trash is scraped from the hair,
rubbing blood from arms and face,
certain there’s no slight of hand.
Raise your wrought stubs in thanks,
managing a weak kiss for playmates,
settling with a bar before slipping home,
where the rest decides the next day.
Sharwrong's Song 