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B25 Pg 47

 

The factory

 

The factoryís open

twenty four hours a day.

Conveyer belts roll on,

come what may.

 

Smoke bellows out

from the hundred foot stack,

pouring continuously into the air,

itís chemical black.

 

Thereís the sound of grinding,

the sound of turning wheels.

The continuous sound of,

clashing steel.

 

The factory rolls on,

its fires in a rage.

As it uses the working men as if

they were slaves.

 

The raw material goes in,

at the other end the products come out.

The factory rolls on

twenty four hours a day

come what may.

 

© Written by Dominic John Gill www.poetry.net.au  dominicj7@poetry.net.au  Created on 8/2/00