Stompin’ out rhythm on metal grates,
Push and grind in the sweat and grime.
Underneath ribbons of high power lines.
Fork lifts. Air brakes. Clanging steel plates.
On the backroads, near the low bridge,
Synchronized wheels squeal, screech, and whine
Wooden trestles shake loaded down by freight.
Trundling past an American asphalt pitted Rhine.
Amidst the diesel and the grease
Tucked away still thrives a little green oasis.
It’s a working mans Walden Pond,
For a true blue collar, a real Thoreau escapist.
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