Death shut down the works, the factory’s old. The union of the dead has won, and quit. Will his eyes be opened by the cold?

The economy is strong, the market bold, The people as a whole are not hard hit. Death shut down the works, the factory’s old.

The management holds on, when it can hold— Tonight the doctor packs his useless kit. Will his eyes be opened by the cold?

What a question—it’s common—factories fold; Dark windows only show the soul is lit. Death shut down the works. The factory’s old.

Yet whatever reassuring story’s told, The after silence mocks the telling it: Will his eyes be opened by the cold?

By his works, would that faith, like dreams, were sold— A man must be a scab! Do not admit Death, shutdown—the work’s, the factory’s old; Will his eyes! Be opened by the cold!