Who's the real underclass?

you really believe that you're better off than me?
who's the one working a fifty hour week?
the new working class shuffles papers at desks
computer screens blind you to your living death
another day working another day lost
a six A.m. sunset at a five day week cost
the blood on your fingertips, mind frayed like rope
unhealthy reminder of purpose revoked
you'll get your share, you'll go nowhere
and you've no idea
and I don't care
and no one cares
'cause no one's there
like you care

complacency for show
last appeal gone you know
and no one ever gets off for good behavior
when they're living on death row

and it's all the same
the system's blackwash life's cruel game
and it's all the same
the system's blackwash life's cruel game

and there's no stand
you sicken me
selling off
your sanity
two dollar happiness
five for the rest of me

then we fall like raindrops
you're pulling me down
to a place
I never asked to go (but)
it's such a lonely trip
to be making all alone

so I ask again:
you really believe that you're better off than me?
who's the one working a fifty hour week?
the highway to hell's a road paved with gold
and the price of your selfishness is making you
is making you
is making you
is making you
old.