Relativity at the foundry
Behold the scene at the iron works
Where whirls of girls and harried clerks
Surround the boss, a man of vision,
Who, visualizing a new division,
Erases now his ample lap
To stick a pin into a map.
While Whistling Will, behind the doors,
Releases certain gears and soars
Across the ceiling, pausing there,
Amid the smoke, the awesome glare,
To idly tip his bubbling kettle
And pour his friends a ton of metal.