Behind the filth and grime, that his profession gifts him with
Is a man, not unlike you are I.
He was there hours before,
Pulling the threads of every bit and piece together,
And he will be there hours after,
Mopping up the mess, and turning off the lights.
He is the working class hero, and he needs no introduction
No flashy neon sign, nor a gaudy business card to announce his name
He did not go to Harvard or Yale,
He does not wear a suit and tie to the office.
He does not care for our vanities,
He values only hard work, and the calluses that form from it.

Behind the closed curtains of the mediocre apartment.
Sit’s a women, long forsaken by the comforts of suburban life.
She works through the night behind some diner counter,
Only to come home to two small sons,
She is the working class hero, and she needs nobody to tell her,
How to be happy with her life.
She breaks her back only for the smile of her progeny,
She does not desire the envy of her peers,
Nor the approval of her society.
She is content to sit behind her counter,
And earn an honest living.
She values only hard work, and the rewards reaped from it.

The working class hero, surrounds us with its mystique.
No gas-guzzling SUVs ferry it around,
No announcer declares its arrival,
No adoring fans grovel at its feet.
It can make it driving a car older than you to and from places.
It is satisfied with a mumbled greeting when they shuffle up
And it would never aspire for someone,
to go near its mud stained work boots
It works both below us and lives above us.
Working harder in a hour than most of us do in a day.
it forms the solid barrier that keeps us from chaos.
When the Armageddon seems to knock at the door,
The working class hero is there, with a mop and broom