The poem opens with a confident, almost chanting claim: "we prevail against the profit fist." The speaker sets a collective "we" against a greedy, crushing force, and the next line adds a strange, rich image of "a fine pig served with fine fat." It's hard to say exactly who is the pig and who is eating. It could be the powerful feasting on others, or a mocking picture of the comfort that profit buys. The poem leaves that open.
Then comes a lone "how?", and the confidence cracks. The speaker seems to doubt whether the victory they just announced is real. The final lines drop into a quieter, more private register: the speaker is "disturbed" by a letter they are "forced" to write. We aren't told what the letter says, but the word "forced" suggests the speaker is pulled into the very system they claim to resist. The mood is uneasy and tense, a gap between bold words and uncomfortable reality.