The Peasant, The Serf, The Peon walk into The Capitalist Bar

The trough of the Pigs, erupts into silence, barely a sigh
“ you are in the wrong place” a bellow decries
A chorus of laughs, a gathering of wiseguys
A  booth, our bulwark against further attack.
We, the prudent artisans, smirk at the pathetic whack

Free quaff appear from the cloud of incessant babble
The master of the universe sneers “a toast to the rabble”
The mass of blue suits, raises their glasses and leer
We, the salt of the earth, raise our glasses and cheer
“ To our good friends who make our life worth about a beer”

The herd drops their glasses as the insolence sinks in
A few of the gang smiles, but most feel a little chagrin
The chastised return to their incessant babble
We have a good chuckle, no doubt the most radical
The occasional glimpse from the suits had to be had
We raise our glasses and smile to each peering cad

The alpha male as always must spread his musk
The head guy begins his obstreperous thrust
“Our bumpkins have come to wish us good luck,
 thanks for my new mercedes you ignorant cucks”
We listen with glee to the impotent boasting schmuck

We, the three husbands, each with many kids and friends
Loving wives, extended families, a good life it portends
We are full of spirits, our spirits cheerfully possessed
We head for the door our audience merrily dismissed

Of course the haughty bourgeois must get in their last words
It is their way, floating on a pond of scum,  scurrilious  turds
Bullneck tries to block the door, his necktie helps him onto the floor
No other three piece brutes willing to enlist in this combat tour

My friends, we swim in the sea of life, we are the cream, we are the spice
We, the Proletariats, must fulfill the dream, do not wince, do not think twice
We, the workers, must acknowledge the class war will always exist
We must return to solidarity and learn to make a united
obstinate fist