Do you know that you wear my innocent blood,
Or that what covers your back has caused a flood,
Of my pain tainted sweat and vat of tears,
For the chance food my hands have become rusted gears,
I am not paid for the pain that fills your demands,
And against my masters whip not a soul stands,
For my life is worth only that which I can produce,
My failure in even the simplest tasks leads to abuse.
They break all but my young, tiny and nimble hands,
Because they are selling my work to your lands,
I am a child enslaved to your materialistic amusement,
And the most pitiful part is that you are blissfully ignorant.
By: Sheridan C. Hall
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