Ode on a Sewing Machine

Cotton-picking minstrels,
'twas on a Monday mornin',
cum by sail and rope and net.

Orphans, spinning, lives for others
in fashionable circles of decrepitude, maan.
Cum by sail, ducking and diving,
weaving and dealing in beasts
of iron and wood and flesh.

By the window,
shards of flax, balls, strewn
across field and boards,
cum by sail and cart and can. A
good shirt cost more than the life of a slave.

Today we will take
more than the cast-offs of fascists,
their shabby motives,
their threadbare value systems.