Where the dusty wind blows on lone cold journey home
Alone on a dark moonlit path to the mind
Insanity stirs up the broken heartache of life
While mine have yet die out...
Where food rests in the mouths of glut
So such sensational shows the snout of slut
And the harvest fields mid-day have rest
Minds are in unrest about the great Dane of machinery for Machine they must, and thus mustn't to the blue saddened balls of your own must.
For they shout his name Machine with oh so great pleasure and fussing about
The name of his squalor the cowardly peasant Orphiel they shake there heads in dismay and disgust
For the molded hands of unease have yet to please
While the strong hands of Machine pick you up, just to put you down.
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