A poem by: Hans Magnus Enzensberger</p>We can't complain.
We're not out of work.
We don't go hungry.
We eat.</p>The grass grows,
the social product,
the fingernail,
the past.</p>The streets are empty.
The deals are closed.
The sirens are silent.
All that will pass.</p>The dead have made their wills.
The rain's become a drizzle.
The war's not yet been declared.
There's no hurry for that.</p>We eat the grass
We eat the social product.
We eat the fingernails.
We eat the past.</p>oh we know it
oh we know

poem by R.E. Howard:

How can I work and toil the daily 'round
when deep whithin my heart the drums of pictdom sound.