The Inguneer

They’s no man in the factory jest like the inguneer;

No man so independent ner so devilishly queer.

He sorter lives all by himself within his shiny tomb,

An’ won’t take sass frum anyone erbout his ingunroom.

The Super’s allus shaky ‘bout “suggestin’” things to him;

Ez the chances uv an answer, ez a rule, er mighty slim.

It makes no diffrunce who yer be, nur what yer say or do,

He’ll give a nod or grunt, per’aps, an’ turn a valve or two.

He’s never interested in a thing you’ve got to say;

He never asks yer in to loaf n’ yer never wanter stay;

He seems ter be content all day with loneliness an’ gloom,

An’ don’t perpose ter be advised erbout his ingunroom.

They’s no man in the factory, jest like the inguneer,

An’ that is why we toil all day without no thought of fear;

We know we’re safe frum “blow ups”, an’ we’ve grown ter unnerstan’

Thet the ingun knows she’s workin’ unnerneath a master han’.

April 16, '97

“Mill Ballads”