Nor need we gather. Nor need we fish. Nor need we sew. Nor need we reap.
Farming and milling? Not on our agenda. For us no husbandry tasks.
We are ever so busy doing whatever, we cannot help you should you ever ask.
We can't build a shelter or even a bed. (Nor, for all that, bury our dead.)
We're unable to fashion clothing to wear. Nike attends of our feet.
If fact we're a lazy son-of-a- … bear, and — no offense — a trifle effete.
Somewhat akin to pampered house cats but more demanding considering that
we could not survive but for thousands of slobs doing the real — and dirtier — jobs.
Our music and poems, our art and our books — all of our “civilized" perks —
are possible only because we've devised ways of making lesser folk work
while we sit on our asses, draining our glasses, denigrating the lower classes
and keeping them down where they belong. It is our right, doing them wrong.
Far be it from me to harumph in disgust. If roles were reversed, they'd do it to us.
