Shoulder to the Plow

Progress is a myth
If not for he who suffered
Gave himself away
At the hands of fools
And lesser men

False idols and kings
Who came to rule through circumstance
Work him like a dog with a ball and chain
And thanklessness

The dice have been cast
No turning back
Eyes on the ground
Where he will die
Feet
Nailed to the floor
Reason to be
Shoulder to the plow

Facing down the wind
He'll see the way he'll never change
Mark his slow decay as bottles drain
And days go by

Forging his demise
Through poison vice to sap the mind
Iron was the will, now passions wane
And spirits die

The weight on his chest
Aches in his flesh
Dreams of a day
That never comes
Axe
Pressed to the wheel
Bones ground to dust
Shoulder to the plow

Ground down into dust
For a taste of the good life
Left his dreams
Left his hopes be hind

Work him dead
Let him rot