The factory hooter sounds; it makes me think of better days
The foundry soot hacks harder at my eyes and throat and lungs
The sundry feet of striking workers bother me; crime pays
Enough to silence all the noisy scandalmong'ring tongues.
My colleagues on the factory floor are surly, factious brutes
The timeclock stamps much louder on the postal workers' cards
For shoving things through little slots (such things as baby newts)
Which speed their progress faster than the surly toad retards
I'll have no truck with forklift men, for they've no truck with me
I'll stalk no cranes, no cows will doze when I assail them thus
No creamery supplants our wives and thus 'twill ever be
Until my rival kills me with a fortyeight ton bus.

This is no Union!
How dare you treat them so!
No work for no pay!
No dawn for no day!

The evil rumour lives; it makes me think of days to come
The gossip mongers babble in the shops and parks and streets
They're drunk with tittle tattle; for the tale is rather rum
The rumour spreads to anyone that any gossip meets
They know she's cheaper after six, and also at weekends
They know his teapot's never full of anything but gin
They know it's brewed so strong that he can never make amends
To all the servile victims whom he's subtly taken in.

Sombre oblivion!
How much I shun your toils!
Look to your brother man!
Be wary of the other man!