Triangle fire in Bangladesh

Triangle fire in Bangladesh
how many have to die to make the cloths we ware
died in the dying flames
of hot cramped rooms

Swirling smoke and flames
locked in dark lit dusty air of night
chained to their work
they sweat at their sewing machines
for pennies a day

The spinning looms   crank and screech
off the peeling walls
open windows are only open to those who jump
their bosses home without a care
bounces at the gate to bring the fear

Outsourced labor and regulations
to find the slaves we need
the ubiquitous malls
where labels bleed
from Young women,
children and mothers