The Furnace

Nineteen-eighty-four, my father bought the suit

Polished up the brass on his steel-toed boots

Taught me how to shake a hand, look 'em in the eye

Said, "Give 'em forty years and they'll never let you die"

We framed the company charter on the hallway wall

Bowed our heads to the whistle when it made the call

Iron in the morning, coffee on the breath

Praising the engine that was metering our death

Oh, we worshipped the furnace while it ate our skin

Paid for the privilege of checking back in

Taught to love the machine, love the noise, love the cage

Till it extracts your youth and it discards your age

Scrapes your name off the locker before the body turns cold—

There's no market value on a soul grown old

Thirty years later in a sixty-hertz hum

Cartilage grinding like a snare on a drum

Yellow in the eye from the double-shift glare

Counting down the minutes in an ergonomic chair

They moved the pension fund somewhere overseas

Left him with a tremor and two failing knees

A printed paper flyer and an email blast:

"Thank you for your service, but your quarter has passed"

Oh, we worshipped the furnace while it ate our skin

Paid for the privilege of checking back in

Taught to love the machine, love the noise, love the cage

Till it extracts your youth and it discards your age

Scrapes your name off the locker before the body turns cold—

There’s no market value on a soul grown old

Oh, we worshipped the furnace while it ate our skin

Paid for the privilege of checking back in

Taught to love the machine, love the noise, love the cage

Till it extracts your youth and it discards your age

Scrapes your name off the locker before the body turns cold—

There’s no market value on a soul grown old