Is nothing here so fertile
To match unburdened turmoils
Of idle workers’ jealousies,
Whose farmvillesque imaginings
Can sling and fling them on the wings
Of angry birds who crush candies?
Is nothing here so sterile
To match encumbered salty toils
Of sweaty workers’ hopefulness,
Whose dreams, as freshly cottoned fields
Receiving monsoon’s early yields,
Are drowning in a muddy mess?