Grout

The working poor in our myriad rookeries.
Lush as alpine flowers in rubble rockeries.

Blitzed bombed by disease, inflation & scarcities.
Suffocated & entombed by thy fair cities.

Lucky to have family in higher station.
Anchored, unlike many, dismissed by a nation.

Fodder for consumption with what little we spend.
Pitched at each other by falsehoods the zeitgeist penned.

Betters aren’t better; they built all upon our sands.
Is there hope in the little that slips through their hands?