Little sorrows and hopings, little and rugged Rhymes,
Some of them maybe distasteful to the moral men of our times,
Some of them marked against me in the Book of the Many Crimes.
These, the Songs of a Navvy, bearing the taint of the brute,
Unasked, uncouth, unworthy, out to the world I put,
Stamped with the brand of labor, the heel of a navvy’s boot.
Democratic Vistas
By Walt Whitman