You, being of your class,
the class of no-class-conflict,
living in the ghetto of development
you think a ‘world’ of it.

The ‘other world’ of ‘underclass’,
where I am born and grow,
you know nothing of it except
in cinema hall made by your clan.

Though you exist on my labour,
though I aspire not to be one
of your class of rat race;
I am a pain in your arse.

Even by slightest glimpses
of the other world of savages
you ran away for your citadel.
I live on daily bread, and no more.

None is ever ‘born’ in your class.
One is only a ‘product’ of your class
cultivated to perfection where
Gods are made in the image of man.

You are programmed and groomed
to capitalize on every-any-thing,
including man, sex and love, and
even hunger, made to be commodity,

by conversion into matter and money.
Your multi-personality as a product
know not options for a dying one.
You cannot revive his life,

neither allow him dying natural,
by pumping saline and oxygen,
drugs and promises of salvation,
to live a life of vegetable,

a life invalid, by your cherished
Class values of pseudo-altruism,
I am left to be alive
in a perpetual state of trauma.

(“Lady Chaterley’s Lover” :
The title of Novel by D. H. Lawrence)