The smoke stack takes his sentry post atop the factory

He stands erect with pride although he’s a atrocity

He bleches plumes of nasty smoke that float throughout the air

But reprimand this large ole chap, no passerby would dare

The fac’try’s run by little men in suits and ties and vests

Whose names are put on badges and adorned upon their chests

Money is their only friend, no thought to me or you

and soon, I think, their soot and smoke will be my death – ACHOO!