Everyone works and everyone worries
about money to some extent
(unless you're a rich asshole with rich asshole parents),
and it is important to lay example the worry of work,
the wonder of small triumphs and tribulation,
while all of it is poetic human nature.
A working-class, blue collar poet,
I paint portraits of these people that are tender
without being sentimental,
calm yet collectively harsh but not lacking in passion,
and in these tiny, shining evidences,
I know I am not alone in the wayward, hard-working world.
So, I must say
fuck The Great Gatsby,
because I still stand by my 11th grade book report,
that shit is rich people and rich people's problems;
if you love her, send her a letter,
don't build a mansion nextdoor!