The Working People

Working Girl

We're bent over double,
fingers pricked, blood drips stained,
white aprons streaked brown red,
and you, you look on, from on high,
a god, the winged messenger,
your secretary, murmuring.

And I look up, I glare,
I hate you, your easy charm,
your over confidence and your power.
While we are trapped, caught in the
machinery of industry, whirling wheels
and us, flying round in grey and white unison.

And for what? a couple of shillings a week-
I know the men earn more, but us
working girls, we count for nothing.
you need us, our nimble fingers, our quick eyes
but you won't pay for speed, dexterity,
you only pay for our smiles and gratitude.

Oh, if only we ran this place.
If one day us girls could take control-
would we make it fair?
share burdens, spread pleasures,
but no, we do not count, we have no views,
we have no say, we are nothing.