Learn more about other poetry terms

You have slaves but you never see them. There she lies: on the cold, hard floor.
We are trapped,  We are lost,  We need to get out,  But we do not know where we are, We are slaves to the rich,  Lets get on the piss,  Lets charge the gates of gold, Lets break te chains,
Sneakers, gym shoes, my father call them gymmies. Nikes, Jordans, Jays ; I love them Its funny;
Slave to the beat of the sewing machine Working here since thirteen Eventually I will escape hell Attire is all I smell The black smog fills my lungs Surroundings covered in dung
Subscribe to sweatshop