Said the Lathe unto the
Planer when the speed had slackened down,
And the gang had washed and hurried out of sight:
“I am sick of turning,
turning, like a useless circus clown,
I have half a mind to kill myself to-night,”
What’s the use in turning, turning,
Nothing teaching, nothing learning,
Just a tool in some one’s keeping,
doing what I’m told to do;
I am sick of grinding, grinding,
Never leading, always minding,
I am tired of being
driven, aren’t you?”
Said the Planer to his
comrade, “you are wrong in what you say,
Tho’ I sometimes grow a weary of my never ending grind;
For I’m going back and
forward, back and forward all the day,
And with naught but heavy burdens on my mind.”
“We have none of recreation,
We are poor and low in station,
From our dark and grimy
windows we can nothing see of life;
But there’s very much depending
On our labor never ending,
We’re of very much
importance in this ceaseless round of strife.”
“There’s the men who have
to tend us ten long hours of the day,
Who depend upon our service for their bread,
There’s the proud and
haughty owners with their millions laid away,
Who have made it from the faithful lives we’ve led.”
“If it were not for our turning
These poor men would cease their earning,
And mayhaps their many
children would go supperless to bed;
And our masters’ wealth and glory
Would be quite another story,
And their stylish wives
and daughters could no further lustre shed.”
“So I think we’d best be
silent with our dark and humble lot,
Doing good to friend and master day by day;
Going ever back and
forwards, round and round the same old spot,
Bringing happiness to someone who’s away.”
“We have none of recreation,
We are poor and low in station,
From our dark and grimy
windows we can nothing see of life;
But there’s very much depending
On our labor never ending,
We’re of very much
importance in this ceaseless round of strife.”
Joe Cone
June 14, 1900
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