A raucous tone of an oldie worm gear
Sound's like a screech that torn ears
Toothed wheel and it revolving spiral, bear
The oodles of blood as the oil of fear.

The products are orderly transmitted diseases
Wrench is limited avast for every pigment of it
And to rely on its asylum, to ceases
are not enough, to cover the dirt or to omit.

Let's stave the stave of reddish fuels!
If life is a wheel and we are its axles,
Our will be done, drawn of our risksha
And let this machine covert chutzpah.

Working of two wheel with sloping square edge,
Is the next wheel with trickery on the ledge.
Our wheel has a will of its spare-part, none Midas touch
But still, this wheel will chase the chaste egg to hutch.

Be the egg of tomorrow, who's snob the chatterbox.
Uproots our machine's cheapskate who's blood are their tax.
Their waste turns to wax from the slave of fox.
It can take away everything outside of our flocks