Men like to fight
For scraps off the table,
The choice of the meat
Goes to the man who is able.
They won\'t bite the hand
Whilst on all fours,
They serve their master
No servant of yours.
They build their own nests
And spin their own webs,
And look down their noses
Whilst calling us \'plebs\'.
I may pay my taxes
But no yoke of my own,
They lose sight of whats right
Whilst chasing their bone.
Freedom is my choice
Can\'t be told to jump,
But little doggies try
And come down with a flump.