<u>A Hand’s Turn</u>


    <u> </u>


    Raise tired eyes up to the sun,


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    Sweat hangs heavy ‘pon the brow


    Labour reaps what labour sows


    But of his toil, fruit shall not know.


    Taken by those who rule, pompous


    And fat on others work.


    They call it fair and just;


    The kleptocratic ruse


    Yet the iron fist shall ever wane


    ‘til working man works for working man’s gain.