Who would ask the man on the ground,
Or the woman with purple hair?
Who asks the ones who never get heard?
Nobody asks, because nobody cares.
To all of you who we call our leaders,
Which route did you take to the top?
Did your holiness fly you there,
Or did you step on a stairway of bones?
How is the view from the clouds, good sir?
Can you see all of your fields of gold?
So high up you see all of the sea,
But do you still see a single drop?
Who would choose to be a peasant,
If it was in their power to be king?
Who would choose a single straw,
Over a functioning mill?
Knowledge is measured in money,
Not by all that is known,
But what knowledge does money have,
About your soon-to-be mouldering soul
© Emma Jøsok 2016