The clock on the wall and I in my seat.
Ticking and ticking all of the week.
When will it end? When will it stop?
As I sit by the wall with a clock.

Along a dusky road, tail lights glare ahead—
Glowing, beastly eyes of some ****** origin.
There is no going
To be done. The heart and hum of motion has died
And drifted far along the blistering wind.
Pungent smells of death plume
With night-blackened smoke,
The foul breath of burning tires and gasoline sludge.
The air is acrid with it all.
Yellow men in hats and heavy dungarees
Wheel in their stock of the river
And let the blaze drink it dry
With unquenchable thirst.