Factory Floor.

I sometimes like to take my rhyming to extremes, and this is a great example of me going overboard.

Factory Floor.

Stone parts in rooms dark,
Metal hits and makes sparks.
Shock-marks and supply carts
Dart when the work starts.

The men know, when the fuel's low,
The gears here won't go.
The years go and the iron flows,
Debris "snow" on workers head to toe.

Their kids cry in their wives arms,
They'll hear alarms and fear he's harmed.
They'll fuss and sigh as hours go by,
Fearing he's died in those metal farms.

Rusty tools and grease pools,
Machines roll as the product cools.
Taking their toll are the boss's rules,
Coal, parts, and diesel fuel.

Those stone parts in rooms dark,
And metal warm from the day's sparks.
Shock-marks and supply carts
Are parked before the work starts.