John Henry

A country man and railroad man, both he

And all the rugged workers on the line,

From future, past, dismembered.  Faces shine;

The eerie darkness glows.  His limbs swing free,

To wage one useless war against the sea

By blasting earth.  The measured holes combine,

Two seven-footers his; the drill’s one nine.

He won and died of it, shrewd prophecy!

A man today would never even start

To pit himself against the iron beast

And give his best before he’d say he’d tried.

The cold machine has atrophied his heart,

As limbs will shrink within a cast.  At least

When Henry burst his heart, a man had died.