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It`s finger-fever; I feel any day
an inkling to put words on paper sheets
a dream of poetry a la John Keats,
but this is miles and miles to go; away
from my reality. I have to stay
in normal straits, the labour siren bleats
another shift to go; jack-hammer beats,
pneumatic drills fix nuts too loose, astray.
In this cacophony of iron sound
all ears stay plugged, yet sometimes they will catch
a cadence from machines below the ground
ka BOOM, a metal sheet, my mind smiles, „match!
now thats a perfect jamb, strong, iron bound,
just like the door, when work is done, click, latch“.

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The following comments are for "Work"
by Sneaky

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