the procession of blue collars
trek towards their holy factories
clad in hard hats and steel toes
as their lunch pails carry a beat
against their tool belts.

the punch clock pops.
the smokestacks billow.
mass production commences.

with earnest, they perform
for their father Henry Ford...

again, punch cards pop .
sooty stacks subside.
mass evacuation commences.

the procession of loosened collars
skip back home triumphantly
as empty pails swing high,
brothers of blue lock arms
and hum to the heavens.

there day is bread, are potatoes,
are muscles on their young.