For The Man That Toils

Something about the man that toils
How his back seems to hang low
His brow beaded with the morning dew
His skin the product of too many summers
Straining under the sun
His hands the roughness of brick and mortar
His hair covered with his mother's soot
His eyes dry from the lack of necessity for tears
His feet swollen and callused
Could never be repaired by Koreans in malls
Or little scrubby things they sell in soap stores
His clothes covered with his work
His shoes nevermore its original hue
He toils on and on
Wiping the morning dew
His hand is never shook like the architect
His picture is never took like the Overseer
His mind refuses to dream
Cause when that mortar dries
His hands are too heavy to flap like wings
He thinks only of his work
And maybe of his meal
But the one thing he never thinks about
Is what The Almighty has in store for him
Because he already knows