Decades long past
When the west was yet to
Be ridden
There were
And still are today
Three types of men
Who make up
Mankind

The Rich Man
Hands coated in oil
Made of miracles,
Woven as a thread with
The sweat above his lips:
Labor made of unrelenting Conviction

The Poor Man
Sad eyes throughout the day,
Back cramped and aching
From dour Obligation
From brutal hardships
From never yielding work
And yet:
The Poor Man is equal to the Rich Man
When his footsteps lead towards home
To his wife,
To his three adoring children

The Thunder Man:
The Man who has nothing
No home, no respect
But has given his all to
His land, his people
The Poor Man
Who should be
The Rich Man
The Soldier of Today