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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