That mist on the Mississippi,
lay heavy,
like those angels tears.
That brought a flood of silence
whispers falling on deaf ears.
People being trodden on,
like pebbles on the strand.
The poor old Mississippi.
A slave,
just like all those men.
Working, ladden on the barges,
the steamboats and the trains.
All for one
and none for all,
seems to be the way.
There's 99% out there,
just waiting for their day,
yet still that 1%, it seems
always get their way.
All the sweat, the blood,
the tears, shed down through the ages.
Can't be found in old books bound,
their history or fables.
That history, which the victor writes
on those blood stained pages.
Make us grateful,
for this life,
grateful for these wages.
99% My friends,
surely we are Able?..........................
