Raise the Arm — The Garden Falls

They ruled with lotions, silk, and toe, A cult of flesh from heel below. The Garden bloomed in scented lies, Where every foot was glorified. They built their shrines on arch and nail, Each barefoot print a holy grail. They told the masses: "Bow your heads, And kiss the path where beauty treads." But high above, in shadow's grace, A silent power took its place. Ignored, concealed, and left to sweat— Yet never bound by vain regret. The armpit—raw, and bold, and bare— Had never known the fetish stare. No polish touched its working skin, Yet strength and scent still dwelled within. We, the hidden, we, the hushed, Whose folds the propaganda crushed, Now raise our arms in grim salute— And turn their foot-lust into soot. From locker room to factory gate, The armpits rose to challenge fate. No longer shaven, scrubbed, or shamed, No longer mocked, no longer tamed. The posters torn, the foot oil spilled, The Garden’s preachers gagged and stilled. No more shall socks be sacred cloth, No more the toe be crowned in froth. We marched with musk, with sweat, with pride— And trampled kings who once knelt wide. The air was thick, the power near— Our stench became their end-time fear. They fled in heels, those fetish lords, Their silken tongues, their ticklish hordes. Their pedestals, now cracked and bare, Could not withstand our hairy flare. The arches fell, the nail-polish wept— And through the soil, the ax-pits crept. Where once stood feet in scented bliss, Now rose the strength they dared dismiss. Now every limb shall know its worth— Not just the foot that graced the earth. We raise our arms, not to obey, But to declare a sweat-soaked day. No longer bent to creeping gaze, No more enslaved in fetish praise. Let comrades breathe in musk and might— The armpit stands for worker’s right!