Saturday, March 24, 2012

Within the Walls of Perfectia

Beneath the graceful straight lines
That nature could never provide
Our minds and flesh grow
Without the outflow
Of dreams and lives
Of wasted time

Perfectia requires our submission
Our nation is our mission
We bow before the elite machine
Of steel, motion, and oily sheen

The steam rises from the vents
The power churns within
The human cogs are at work
From boiler men to office clerks
We move about these lives
Never seeing the morning light

But we obey and serve the master of Perfectia
Steel and steam is its name