POSTSCRIPT
As life improved, their poems
Grew sadder and sadder. Was there oil
For the machine? It was
The vinegar in the poetfs cup.
The tins marched to the music
Of the conveyor belt. A billion
Mouths opened. Production,
Production, the wheels
Whistled. Among the forests
Of metal the one human
Sound was the lament of
The poets for deciduous language.