Analysis of Blackshirts & reds

Oh here goes, the story of the rich,
In their fancy
Prada shoes, bathed in all
Probable luxuriousness that money can buy
More precious than the gleam of life
In the eyes of the peasant girl.
The shine of the blue diamond
Around her neck is valuable.

Oh look, how they smile.
And velvet curtains, and streaming pearls.
The ruffle of the dresses glide
The one that Hari, the janitor, scrubbed
Over the smooth tiled floors.
Yesterday, until his hands bled,
And washed off his blood with soap water.

Oh look, I see them gushing.
About their well-to-do husbands,
And loathe the filthy maid, whose waist
Carries the weight of lusty stares
Of their groomed beloveds.
For they do not hear the sobs
Of a wronged woman, who was dirtied
By clean, trespassing hands over her body.

Oh look at them, foreheads frowned, Eyes calculative, and sly like that of the fox.
With fat cigars, pressed in between the lips
Wafting wispy smoke of capitalism.
I see their minds, see their wicked dreams,
Of curbing and crippling the already broken.
For rich shall grow richer, and poor
Shall be poorer. That is their rule.

Oh look, there's the arm.
The power of oppressed.
Don't you worry; they will
Refurbish the tile, again.