I was sat on the fence or
was I sat on the fence?
doubting my senses
dropping all pretence now
feet on the ground now
and
people mill around me,
harks back here to
the cotton reels inside me

and all that industry
still moves beside me,
trudging feet and the smell
of stale tobacco
women with headscarves
going to the thrift stores
sores and chilblains
who are we to blame now?

not the fukin overseers
because we all know that they're saints,

back at home and a bath by the hearthside
cotton reels still spinning deep down inside me
what would I be now if not for all the industry?

I'd be free.