The Machine
It all starts with a flip of a switch,
The machine chokes to life, starts to move a bit.
The hammers swing, they pound iron to iron,
They never sleep,
They never grow tired.
The heat rises from the furnace,
It burns ten thousand degrees hot.
It blasts the metal,
It too never stops.
Gear teeth grind,
Pistons pump,
The oil and grease drip,
The hot iron dumps.
The mold presses down,
It forms small metal chunks,
Which the hammers pound flat,
They keep swinging,
Down,
Down,
Down.
The machine is a fire-bred monster, which roars as it works,
Never sleeps,
Never stops,
Never thinks twice about slowing down,
Watch as it works.
The metal moves down on a wide leather belt,
Till from the heart of the machine, a metal tentacle picks it up.
It moves to a press, where it's folded into a cube,
Then, the tentacle picks it up.
Along with a few other strange shapes, it moves up to the top,
It drops them on the belt, which always moves,
Never stops.
The machine is a fire-bred monster, which roars as it works,
Never sleeps,
Never stops,
Never thinks twice about slowing down,
Watch as it works.
One by one, other tentacles raise,
And drop their own strange parts, pulled from the haze,
Of smoke and exhaust,
Dust and dirt,
Which shrouds this monsters incredible girth.
The belts with the shapes the molding press made,
Slide down a shoot back into the haze.
Where little tentacles work together, making ten little parts,
Into one.
The machine is done.
It spits out the part,
Grimy hands reach down and grasp the engineered art.
The man, the inventor, walks across the room,
To where another machine is being birthed in the gloom.
The machine is a fire-bred monster, which roars as it works,
Never sleeps,
Never stops,
Never thinks twice about slowing down,
Watch as it works.