I wonder how long they will live....
I wonder how long they will live,
Those hard working young men
That load fertilizers all day on their shoulders.
I saw the bags leak white powder
On their bare chests.
I saw the powder sprinkled on their smooth hairless skins.
I bet you they will not make it past forty.
What kind of joys do they have in this life?
They sleep in a crowded cabin,
Twenty five to thirty tired guys...
Too tired to dream, too tired to cry...
Do they play cards and smoke for fun?
Watch the latest movie star, on a tiny old TV tube set?
With a wire hanger, undone, and made into a makeshift antenna?
Most cannot read,
so books are not an entertainment
or a diversion from a hard life....
Most are not married,
And their religion is not open minded about sex...
Do they masturbate for fun?
Surely it is tricky, to find privacy for that....
There are no bathrooms and no running water.
Just a hose connected to the old port's shed.
It has dirty tap water, used to wash the boats.
In the neighborhood, the squatters,
also have no running waters.
They pump water from the dirty canals for showers and for cooking.
Drinking water is delivered in large plastic cans.
They pray to a god who cares little about them,
Who judges them by the merit of their deeds....
Condemn them or punish them, as he sees fit....
What a system of belief....
How much does it allow for the flight of the spirit?
For tolerance of the human struggle?
I wonder how long they will live,....
These hard working young men
Who look at me with vacant eyes...
The woman from the land of plenty....
While they need to carry more than my weight
Each time they get on or off the boat,
Balancing on a narrow plank....
For a daily pay of less than what I paid
For my morning coffee at Starbucks.
I bet you they will not make it past forty.....
Those hard working young men
That load fertilizers all day on their shoulders.
I saw the bags leak white powder
On their bare chests.
I saw the powder sprinkled on their smooth hairless skins.
I bet you they will not make it past forty.
What kind of joys do they have in this life?
They sleep in a crowded cabin,
Twenty five to thirty tired guys...
Too tired to dream, too tired to cry...
Do they play cards and smoke for fun?
Watch the latest movie star, on a tiny old TV tube set?
With a wire hanger, undone, and made into a makeshift antenna?
Most cannot read,
so books are not an entertainment
or a diversion from a hard life....
Most are not married,
And their religion is not open minded about sex...
Do they masturbate for fun?
Surely it is tricky, to find privacy for that....
There are no bathrooms and no running water.
Just a hose connected to the old port's shed.
It has dirty tap water, used to wash the boats.
In the neighborhood, the squatters,
also have no running waters.
They pump water from the dirty canals for showers and for cooking.
Drinking water is delivered in large plastic cans.
They pray to a god who cares little about them,
Who judges them by the merit of their deeds....
Condemn them or punish them, as he sees fit....
What a system of belief....
How much does it allow for the flight of the spirit?
For tolerance of the human struggle?
I wonder how long they will live,....
These hard working young men
Who look at me with vacant eyes...
The woman from the land of plenty....
While they need to carry more than my weight
Each time they get on or off the boat,
Balancing on a narrow plank....
For a daily pay of less than what I paid
For my morning coffee at Starbucks.
I bet you they will not make it past forty.....
