Factory of the Forsaken

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Got a new job, pulling wool from the sheep
As we all leave our homes, children cry, our wives weep
They say the revolution is the country’s new birth
But life in the factory’s hell upon earth.

Each day begins at the near crack of dawn
Necks bent and backs ache, for all the day long
Sixteen hours at best we’re forced to struggle and toil
With vats of hot acid that bubble and boil.

The factory rooms are sticky with heat
They smell of fire, of blood, and raw meat
Diseases are raging, fevers run high
But we’re forbidden to rest, it’s work hard or die.

We paint sheep with strong acid to loosen the wool
Which they say makes it easier to grab and to pull
But it burns like white fire, and we silently scream
At the mangled remains of what our hands used to be.

The acid boils our blood, enjoying our moans
It licks at our skin, melting flesh to the bone
Accidents cause features to wax and distort
But we can’t complain if we want any work.

Limbs are sliced off, and infections take hold
Just a slip of the knife, or a reflex to slow
Holds an outcome of disfiguration or death
And agony’s with all, as they draw their last breath.

Our jobs are hard labor with long hours to stand
And we often trudge home, just a penny in hand
But they say we are lucky to be working at all
And to get any pay, no matter how small.

If sick or if injured, our positions don’t wait
We are left to ourselves, and the mercy of fate
Accidents are fatal, even losing a hand
For once unable to work, there is no second chance

And so we fight through, we stand up with pride
But when nobody’s looking, our despair cannot hide
So they say we are lucky, but inside we all cry
And pray to the Lord, “Dear God, please, let me die.”





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