and the grandsons of engineers - at the hotel
in the lateness of this summer eve -
walk into the hotel burdened with tools
and paperwork & stay where
no one is really from -
for a rest period.
We do ride a magic carpet made from
rocks, hearts of trees and steel -
victims of time and innovation.
They call it progress - we call it labor.
If John Henry only knew,
he dug his own grave!
His heart had no value to business!
His story but a lesson, &
good morning America,
you have no idea what rolls
on your ribbon rail -
tied across your mountains -
hills and plains.
You love your railroads and your
children dream of employment -
to be the next Casey... draped in
history and pride.
We roll past towns and farms,
all the places that used to be -
that still have names,
but nowhere to go.
Locked out of opportunity -
while goods and services are
rendered in steel cars and boxes -
Your native son is dead
your cities, drowning in debt!
They sell your American dream
back - for pennies on their dollar
& workers toil in midnight shifts
in the noon day sun - miles away -
out of view - in sweat shops -
in orient plantations.
While poisons are delivered on time -
to your decimated soil