I hymned a roar from the inner depths

of the machine surrounding. The howl fell

on ears of deaf, as did my heartbeat’s pounding.

The apparatus groaned around me. “Oil!”

cried my master. My job in here’s to tend

this beast, that it may then whirr faster.

I can’t see the product of my toil

from inside this grave machine. I have but one God

I follow: The King of Gasoline.

All the gears that crank above me creek with

shrieks of men, who threw themselves

upon the gears, which, laughing, ground them in.

And these gears to which I tend

extend up to the moon. A place that sounds

like paradise compared to this boiler room.

“Hark!” I call again, my beckon echoin’

through the gears. “Let me go,” I call to them

as if they all had ears.

They heard me but they didn’t stop;

kept clicking into place. The shrieks of dying men

chimed back, so I sang deeper into space.