That man has never felt the prick of a pin or the stab of a needle. He has never had to endure the endless poking sensation of the thin, cold metal pressing into the top layers of his flesh. We, who bend and pull and bleed over these plants, who spin and thread and weave these fabrics, who cut and dye and tailor those perfectly fitting suits that he is seen in near the plaza, we feel the holes in our skin. We endure the pain of their cruelty and as our nerves jump and twist and recoil from their shocks, we must give up the fruits of our horrible labor to a man that shall never understand the price of his pleasant life.


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