Talk about beauty -- Why, boy,
That scene would fill a blooming sphinx with joy!
All that steel frame-work bristling in the sun
Is something we have done.
We are creators, man,
We sweated, plugged, and built it, span by span
And every rusty beam that skyward towers
Is ours -- we built it -- it is ours!
Sure, buddy, sure, I know
The boss has got it now -- he'll have to go;
When we form our Industrial Parliament --
We'll can him subsequent --
But, say, boy, watch them clouds,
They seem to stand still while that eye-beam strouds
Across the sky -- she's pretty, ain't she, son?
That piece of work we've done.
- Raymond Corder, Socialist poet, New York, 1921