Children of the Working Classes to Somes gaunt, ugly, deformed broken from the womb, and horribly shriven at the labor of their forefathers, if you check back scout around grey before actual time their sordid brains don't work right, pinched men emaciated, piling up railroad ties and highway ditches blanched women, swollen and crudely numb up before the dark of dawn scuttling by candlelight, one not to touch, that is, a signal panic thick peasants after the attitude at that time of the century, bleak and centrifugal they carry about them, tough disciplines of copper Indianheads. there are worse, whom you may never see, non-crucial around the spoke, these you do, seldom locked in Taunton State Hospital and other peon work farms drudge from morning until night, abandoned within destitute crevices odd clothes, intent on performing some particular task long has been far removed there is no hope, they locked-in key's; housed of course and there fed, poorly off sooted, plastic dishes, soiled grimy silver knives and forks, stamped Department of Mental Health spoons but the unshrinkable duties of any society produces its ill-kempt, ignorant and sore idiosyncracies. There has never been a man yet, whom no matter how wise can explain how a god, so beautiful he can create the graces of formal gardens, the exquisite twilight sunsets in splendor of elegant toolsmiths, still can yield the horror of dwarfs, who cannot stand up straight with crushed skulls, diseases on their legs and feet, unshaven faces and women, worn humped backs, deformed necks, hare lips, obese arms distended rumps, there is not a flame shoots out could ex- tinguish the torch of any liberty's state infection. 1907, my mother was born, I am witness to the exasperation of gallant human beings at god, priestly fathers and her Highness, Holy Mother the Church persons who felt they were never given a chance, had no luck and were flayed at suffering. They produced children with phobias, manias and depression, They cared little for their own metier, and kept watch upon others, some chance to get ahead Yes life was hard for them, much more hard than for any bloated millionaire, who still lives on their hard-earned monies. I feel I shall have to be punished for writing this, that the omniscient god is the rich one, cared little for looks, less for Art, still kept weekly films close for the free dishes and scandal hot. Some how though got cheated in health and upon hearth, I am one of them. I am witness not to Whitman's vision, but instead the poorhouses, the mad city asylums and relief worklines. Yes. I am witness not to God's goodness, but his better or less scorn. Mayday 1972 John Wieners John Wieners is a Boston poet.