Chasing Peas Poem by Ben Bra

Leaves are steeped, bread on the plate
We don our hats, our dinner's late
6 to 5 and 9 to 8
Our work is droll, our wives seethe hate

We be not blamed, our toil is fair
It's bosses and the manager
Have us by our hair

Work for peas, yet can't afford
Our shoes rattle upon the floors
Tatters, rips, our cloths are frayed
Placed on the table, wait for days

The food is cold, kids are weak
Our future looks plainly bleak
Of those to whom we cannot speak
We own not under our own feet