Born of oil, wrought in flame, A beast inside a wooden frame. Braced with steel, wrapped in mesh, An edifice of woven flesh. And in its looming shadow strode The men who marched the woollen road. Vats of dye, reels of thread, Cascading from its silhouette. Smoking pyres, a beating drum, Black against the blood-red sun. And through its gaping trumpets strode The men who marched the woollen road. Swollen balls, a severed hand, Dolloped from its weaving gland. Droppings here, droppings there, Basking in the brownly air. And through this wicker squalor strode The men who marched the woollen road. Branding irons, a bitter cry, An extra lash for every lie. Made to harvest, made to reap, Made to sew, then made to weep. And trapped inside this silken womb, The dead return to tend the Loom.