Little Workers Poem by Kevin Maroney

Life is a hole, under all which burns,
into the fire, throwing all one earns,
Down to the smallest molecule,
everything over which man doth drool.
Were he to see such work as this,
he'd not complain of his own life crisp.
Clean and ready for him to take,
from how many men was he baked?

This pie, so complete and working,
how could such wheels be turning,
but to wheel and type alone,
ready for every solitary phone.
A being so majestic in its might,
its great power of thought and sight.
Millions stand to support his throne,
who are frequent hidden, o'ergrown.

How disappointing it must be,
to those who help build this majesty.