On a slate grey day In the hazy month of May With my stainless steel lunchbox, and thermos. I make my way to the fucktory. In a putrid green flanel I cross o'er a channel to play with my light panel and pull upon my handel. Pressing something into (a) shape at the fucktory. Of course I've clocked in and donned protectant for my skin I never leave my locker open In case the token Jew, or Negroid, decides to steal my lunch at the fucktory. I never look my boss in the eye for fear I mayest cry, or die, or Pi mathematically an outcasted single guy. Inconsequentially wondering why I ever decided to work at the fucktory? Perhaps it was because of poppa calling me a queerly gay poeta that would rather paint kneeling Geishas with flutes in hand, but with no band. Ah, just waiting for a raise & a hug at the fucktory. Guilty ignorant and rather poor Daily, I return home quite sore To a house of inquisitive bores That call me a whore as much as possible. Even whilst we sleep I weep for us of the fucktories.