From the sweat of their brows the desert blooms,
And the forest before them falls;
Their labor has builded humble homes,
And cities with lofty halls.
And the one owns cities and houses and lands,
And the ninety and nine have empty hands.
There are ninety and nine that work and die
In want and hunger and cold,
That one may live in luxury
And be lapped in the silken fold!
And ninety and nine in their hovels bare
And one in a palace of riches rare.
— Anonymous, There are Ninety and Nine, Chants of Labor, p.11 (From the Boston Globe.)