Piteous Proletariat

While aversely obliging
decadent demands
of the reigning, endorsed  affluent,
an internal voice howls
interposingly loud
and insists I really shouldn’t:

“pitiful, weary worker,
Coerced, uncaringly ordered
and damned by upper class rules,
will you ever tire
of being a servile martyr...
of acquiescently singing the blues?”

Yet indignantly yielding I remain,
for on the altar of entrenched conformity,
sacrificed is this entrancing sound
of truth and reason by an ear-piercing,
reticent silence en masse.