Hatred and the Singaporean whip thrashing, thrashing, thrashing! The fascists have hit America and they have been here for long and it is promoted in the deep blue reflected on John Henry’s funeral trousers; lay that rail, nail that spike, beat that machine, checkmate long time ago.

Eli Whitney seen picking cotton next to none. Machine he says, can it be done? Iron claw of the mind souls bone, manifested beyond the physics of the sun. Looking at his hand, good ol’ John Henry exclaimed, layn rail, layn rail, layn rail.

The sex ornaments are in the closet and John Henry and John Henry is going to get some tail. And bombarding his grave are T.V. waves of the past.

So, wheat paste to John Henry, my friend, the machine is easily defeated. Wheat paste, my friend; your honor, your honor, I was just laying rail, just layn rail, layn rail.

My hands are the machines blood and my heart is blow your feet and my soul has been sold to your fathers will and Cheney sold his long ago.

All kinds of dying on that engine. All kinds of promoting and lying for the engine. Chugga, Chugga; there goes Dick Cheney, asshole extraordinaire, chasing after his train, his brain.

If ol’ John Henry has thrown down his hammer and oh the hammer will be the death of me! If he’d only seen the pastures he disrupted, seen the natives he displaced, John Henry wouldn’t be.

Oh the hammer will be the death of me! Oh the hammer will be the death of me!

Drew Luan Matott, 2006.