Our endless journey.

We're travellers or sometimes refugees,

Rather helpless victims of middle-class greed.

Being mere puppets of wealthy wicked witty judges,

Singing, dancing, celebrating - while we bleed.

Our baggages are people and oh! they're a handful,

Families and friends, all stacked up yet jumbled, 

And some relations of physical toil but so grateful,

Like scavengers we feast still leaving them humbled.