Lop it off again, the mop,
Falls bitwise to the floor,
The clumps partitioning the crop,
Disjoint they scatter to the door.

Harmonics at this winking hour,
A homely song just out of words,
But hum to fill the heavy air,
Father and son make simple sound,
And lightly turn the heavy air,
To fragrant with the simple sound.

Hard steel clatters and rebounds,
In an electric dance,
As pure flowing power crackles silently between the tracks.

The world rushes by impassive,
Insulated by thick onsetting night,
And a desolate wind chases behind.