The Truth.

Come then, let us at least know what's the truth.         Let us not blink our eyes and say      We did not understand; old age or youth         Benumbed our sense or stole our sight away.      It is a lie - just that, a lie - to declare         That wages are the worth of work.      No; they are what the Employer wills to spare         To let the Employee sheer starvation shirk.      They're the life-pittance Competition leaves,         The least for which brother'll slay brother.      He who the fruits of this hell-strife receives,         He is a thief, an assassin, and none other!      It is a lie - just that, a lie - to declare         That Rent's the interest on just gains.      Rent's the thumb-screw that makes the worker share         With him who worked not the produce of his pains.      Rent's the wise tax the human tape-worm knows.         The fat he takes; the life-lean leaves.      The holy Landlord is, as we suppose,         Just this - the model of assassin-thieves!      What is the trick the rich-man, then, contrives?         How play my lords their brilliant roles? -      They live on the plunder of our toiling lives,         The degradation of our bodies and souls!