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B25 Pg 47
The factory
The factory’s 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,
it’s chemical black.
There’s 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