I denounce the factory owner for grabbing the land,
 underpaying for the raw material, and subjecting
 his employees to longer hours and mediocre conditions. 

 From the third and upper floor of the building adjacent 
 to the factory, he glances briefly at headlines of today's paper. 
 Beneath him, a mob of mid-management awaits new instructions. 

 Ownership has been in the family. Only they can buy and sell. 
 Eager to show utter disregard for anyone else and other ways. 
 He sips his coffee, curses the times, and mocks the news.

 He gives orders, puffs his pipe, and asks about the deliveries. 
 Every day I rise early, put on my best attire, stand in line 
 at the docks across the fields from his balcony, and I beg for a job.