There’s no poetry in here
So I write a little something on the wall
Where 3 proud generations of Ford men
Have sat and shit and written in their scrawl
There’s no poetry for them
That worked the days and nights on cars
They’d never own or care
What happened to them after
They’d been past their tiny job
And on through press and dip and paint
Then trim and final fit and quality
Control then out the gate to sit and wait
Unsold