I am the worker sold to the machine.
In a minute there is time
I sup, and when benighted,
O harp and altar, of the fury fused,
And swigged my horny barrel,
And always end much at a loss like this,
We, the people, must redeem
Your culvers take, or matchless make
With a tankard by me,
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
In a minute there is time
I sup, and when benighted,
O harp and altar, of the fury fused,
And swigged my horny barrel,
And always end much at a loss like this,
We, the people, must redeem
Your culvers take, or matchless make
With a tankard by me,
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.