Clangor-a Clangor-a Clangor-a Clunk.
Peals bleak, bright and dauntless
Cold hands, carbon-black and bitter,
And a bucket of wrenches, batteries with no sour taste left in the plugs,
A call, no, a scat to the creep of the terrier dog,
For the sweet green god on the jacks
All for you, who wait in your solitude
As we, in our sorrow for money, paw in the rag-box
Drop hands to a young glinting eye in the street
Till behind us loud skrunts some expensive disaster
And we, we errants in grease, grind, and willful genius
Hail the far throom of our huge, joyous somewhere-tomorrow,
Gray sky, skurry leaves, blue paper Tahiti.