Rocket red robots and tincan screws
Light up the night with sparks,
Which I love.
The workers work and the sleepers,
They sleep forever.

Making rye for the breadwinners,
Making toasty socks for the children,
Making copper caps and wee brass booties,
But won't let them take a wee stroll,
Not in contrary Mary's garden.

The kettleheads squeal and the bronze bucket chests,
They hum with drums in their stomachs,
Candygloss paint trickles onto
The sprockets below with their sharp teeth,
Teeth that creep over the outmodes and candy red.

I think I thought I sought to see
Failing to pass, coming to belie
The hunger overtaking me
Of what I can, the drive to be

I thought I heard a child cry
A ghostly tear of old
Among the trappings of my mind
Patter against the mold

I'm saving that for cleaning, in spring
The recesses, twisted and dead
For the plaques will be gleaming
From the merit of my seeming
And not from inside my head.

Trundling through the Room of Word,
The crude remarks and the young absurd,
They come an go, no valedictory speech,
Just to and fro, a vestige for each.

So I sit and I stare, with a nihilist prayer,
And I ***** my heart to the sticking place,
Left alone in the quietude, left alone in a private mood,
No crude remarks for a tired face.

So I sit and I stare, yes, I sit and I stare, 
screen boring me holes for eyes,
I wait and I dare, my words in the air, 
The atmosphere sets and dries - 
The atmosphere sets and it dies.

I'll wait there, 'do something, accompany me'
I'll wait there, like waiting for a train.

But once I've waited, no latened, loving response belated,
I tire of this melancholy station,
I'm alone in the Room 'o' Words, my company split to fifths and thirds,
It's time for another, emotional vacation.