Roaring lions valiant in a row,
Caught up in ritual combat on the green,
To fight from down behind and low,
Bellows puffing in a heated row,
They take a toll of time till every drop,
Of sweat beads down their rivals brow,
Which pleads the stifled foe to stop.
For the game is lost and won.

Sitting in the dust,
A bolt in hand,
Like gleaming lightning to the threaded hole it flies,
And I ratchet in an ordered rhyme,
With yellow compound coated thick,
I toil away on metal flesh,
What humble thing is this?
To work with hands so learned yet so soft,
To turn from hoovered floors and pretty screens,
Instead to dust and industrial grime,
And fasten something in the present.