Two men cutting threads there on a lathe.
They are machinists of a sort
And there are half a million more
In these United States ---

But let that be.
I mean just what you see,
Just these two men right here.

You can't dismiss this business
With a statement:
Here are two machinists,
Timothy MacNeil and Peter Parks.

Hell no. Do you see Tim there?
Well, I'll tell you something.
Once he happened in the park
Of a summer evening.
A band was playing Kathleen Mavourneen,
And Tim --- why, the big hulky clout,
He stopped and listened,
Shuffling foot from left to right;
And when they finished, why
He walked away.
But you know what?
I saw him softly crying as he went.

As for Peter Parks ---
You wouldn't know it,
For he's rough and something of a trouble-maker,
Always griping at the union or the company.
They'd both be glad to see him gone.

When he goes home, and takes off his big shoes
And settles in a chair,
His daily dope-injected tabloid in his hands,
Why, it will likely happen that
His little girl comes up to him

And leans against his knee a while
And first thing she is on his lap;
That clumsy, meaty paw of his
Is brushing slowly through her hair,
And he is telling her a story
Of the Virgin Mary and her sweetness,
And her Child.

Well, damn it,
I'm not making it quite clear, you know ---
Exactly what I mean.

But don't walk by so fast and just say:
"Two more machinists,
Cutting threads there on a lathe."

1945

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