Those bastards in their mansions:
to hear them shriek, you’d think
I’d poisoned the dogs and vaulted the ditches,
crossed the lawns in stocking feet and threadbare britches,
forced the door of one of the porches, and lifted
the gift of fire from the burning torches,
then given heat and light to streets and houses,
told the people how to ditch their cuffs and shackles,
armed them with the iron from their wrists and ankles.
Those lords and ladies in their palaces and castles,
they’d have me sniffed out by their beagles,
picked at by their eagles, pinned down, grilled
beneath the sun,

Me, I stick to the shadows, carry a gun.