We're just the working class

Who are you
To look down on us;
The "working class" you consider pus
An infection we must be, in the eyes of your perfection
We build your high-rises and shine the windows reflecting our shiny sweat covered faces
Who are you
To look down on other races
Until you taste this blood and tears you've never known years of hardship
Who are you
On your private ship; sipping wine labored from a farmers efforts
Served to you on a silver platter
You can scatter the pieces of the chessboard any way you please;
and believe we'll always be on your leash
You tease us with petty treats, gifts to keep us quiet
Always dangling the carrot, forever re-angling the incentive
Just over that forever horizon
The prize on the end of the stick; as we stick our noses right up your asses
We're just the lower-classes
The majority, the gun-wielding hard workers of society
So where is your propriety when your pissing your pants
When your given a slaves rations
Where are your detached passions as you watch the starving child clinging to her mother
And you; with your expensive whore-lover, thinking she's nothing but a money-grubber
But can you see from her eyes
When theres nowhere left to turn
And all you yearn for is power; not dreams, hopes, or wishes
As she kisses you goodbye; you'll never see the tears of shame she hides
Your one night rides; an already faded memory
A degrading power-trip, to make your dick feel big
But your nothing; behind the suit, the education and plastic surgery
Just an animal afraid to get dirty

Fashion Goddess

Coming from a land where personalities were banned, I was forever struggling to fit in with the fads, and when it faded like blue jeans; I became an outcast in a new scene
No longer green with envy at the preppy armies, I no longer aimed to please the barbies
Ragtag fashion became my new passion; but it wasn't me
It was just a new clone army, and I was goth barbie
I blended in with the faded blacks like smudged charcoal
I followed along; dressing in chains and collars, spikes and layers of necklaces against my fishnet fetishes; but then I walked away and my fashion dwindled to cheap retail stores
I was one of the slave-labor whores

My sweet breath of fresh air was you Seattle...
I left that shuttle flown down from planet clone; and from your green palette my true colors shone through, like water glistening on a new shoe
I found my inner voice; my life was filled with color choice and even time-traveling
I was unraveling my layers, and my fashion prayers were answered; when I was surrounded by a hodge-podge of misfits and everyone was their own designer
No one questioned my 70's polyester flower power blouse, no; they looked at me with envy
I felt my fashion goddess powers for the first time, and paisley was on the menu again
Yes this delicious sin of vintage is in
This wondrous fifties dress is draping on my skin...
And I feel free, I feel like I am finally me
I found my style; and it is wild and and versatile just like the scenery; and I'm sure as hell not in any scene but my own
Own your runway, catwalk down your own path
Because rules are for clones; and last I checked I wasn't in any alien experiment, but my own clothing experience