The Foreman's Face

A prideful man, eager for work
Strips an engine bare
Attaches custom parts designed
For an application rare
The diesel builds the pressure up
With canisters in place
Gas flows through the shower heads
And digs two hundred graves

The humble man, knows only work
Walks the factory
Leathered hands, still diesel soaked
Weave alloyed tapestries
Makes his home, between the lakes
Rust belt utopian
Lives life of grievous good
The true demise of men

Fiction held in modern thought
Translates into loss
Gone, the sense of real dread
So common to the cost
Disappear in boredom's breadth
Safety lurks on every street
A fortress of cadaver walls
Pay the price of purity

Think of what can make a man
And of what men are made
Beings chained to circumstance
The choices they forgave
When smiles cloak atrocities
And the screams of millions dead
Are shrieking songs of dying throngs
Going through the foreman's head