wind whistles through the old worksite
ghost hammers beating down the day
no more treads on the turnstiles
weeds and trees blasting blown out bays
no more typing tallies and timesheets
turn to a crow startled from a beam
nightbird family living in an old dream
crackled cockroach concrete cooled
so dawn goes down to day to dusk
nothing gold can stay...
it rusts.
~MR
So M.M sits their broken hearted
His shop is closing broken aparted
He lied to his men about the shut down
Now he is stuck their with Larry the clown
No motors to build kits to pack
Whos going take the garbage out back
Well we know the guys were the best around
Now the can bring the scabs from Houston tour town
So I finish my poem with this last thought
He can cut grass with the trailer that WFT bought.