I am not upper class
Or middle class
Or the bourgeois class
That has come to rule the world
I am a working class
And the angry class
And the oppressed class
That will come reclaim the world
I pluck the peaches from the Georgian groves
And pick the cotton from the Carolina fields
I mend the clothing from the assembly line
And I clean up the gulf after the oil spills.
My coarse hands have bled and burned
My feet have hardened on the dusty road
It is in the process of making for others
That my class status continues to hold.