Class Farce

You can change your voice, change your hair
Change your home and what you wear,
But you’ll still be judged by where you went to school
What you ate as a child, the size of your hall.
You can never escape those early roots,
Those scruffy shoes and too big suits.
Your birth and background denote your place,
In a pecking order determined by your face.
Those blue collars you once wore stain your skin
To tell your employer whether you will fit in.
Your scars of survival set you from your peers,
Who, indulged in privilege, knew no such fears.
Like a stud horse, you’re marked by the place of your birth
For the number of titles you have, for your monetary worth.
Your value is based on the genes you possess,
Not the talent inside or skills you profess.
But you can never move up from your humble sty
You will never be accepted however you try.
Because they’re the elite, a superior race
In which commoners like me will never grace.
You’re blood isn’t blue, your line isn’t royal,
You’re a mish mash, a genetic mongrel.
In their tight knit societies, they exclude the outside
Too consumed by self preservation and stubborn pride.
Even if you knuckle down and earn a fast buck,
In their communities you’re still down on your luck.
You can’t escape your class and worker life
You can’t conceal your sacrifices and strife.
They’re marked in full view on our heart and soul
They’re etched deeply on every aim and every goal.
You can’t change their inbred vitriol, the spite and hate
You can’t change their easy hand and comfortable fate.
Strive on and be the best you can be,
In spite of them, it will come eventually.


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