From the Evening Star, December 16, 1912. By Philander Johnson. How lucky is the great machine, Set up with cunning art. It runs unwearied and serene, A flywheel at its heart. Its stomach is the furnace great; Its muscles are of steel; It does not halt or hesitate; It does not think or feel. Its veins are filled with fluid fire; It knows no bliss or pain; No fierce, unsatisfied desire Persuades it to complain. When it is ill, no nostrums quench The energy that thrills— A man comes with a monkey wrench And cures it up or kills. And when it cannot do the tasks It has performed for years, It seeks the scrap pile and it asks No sympathy or tears.
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