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Rag Trade


Welcome to Bangladesh where
In slavery, in all but name,
Its work knuckles to the bone
For the rag trade game.
They block the single entry,
Lock and chain the door,
Nail down the windows so
They dont open anymore.
In this gloomy dark room
The sewing machines whir
Making cheap clothing for
The westerner to wear.
Its a long hard day
Very little time for a break
For each single worker has
Their own target to make.
Huddled at their bench sewing
Seam after seam after seam
No time to ease the tension
By even having a daydream.
They work there for coppers
Just to scrape a bare living
For the poor of Bangladesh
Poverty is in no way forgiving
Sometimes the factories fire,
Burn down to the ground:
Only the lucky few escape,
It's mainly bodies that are found.
But the world keeps on turning
And protest as we may
Another sweat shop will be open
The very next day,
For the Western companies
The Retailers of the Rag Trade
Pay very little attebtion to
Conditions where they're made
Maybe we should remember
For us to get an item cheap,
One way or another, somebody
Pays much further down the heap.







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