The Factory
Hot and filthy my throat is parched and dry every muscle burns with pain the sting of sweat burns my eyes
Bound to this great machine I jerk and pull at my chains the price you pay for freedom may be double what you gain
On and on and on the great work never complete your wits dulled to senseless this tragic monotony
Lungs filled everyday on toxic fumes we choke a million days are blurred away our hopes and dreams are broke
Wicked fingers stab at me guilty voices accuse frustration fuels the anger fighting abuse with abuse
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"The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel." -William Gibson
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