Classic Poem

I sit once more at the glory hole,
As I sat in days of yore,
And the charcoal flies in my face and eyes
And oh! but my hands are sore.
There are blisters on my fingers
And blisters on my thumbs,
And there are blisters every darned old place
A blister ever comes
My arms just feel like chunks of wood,
I scarce can move them more,
But I sit and sing and roll my ring
To the hum of the factory's roar.
The bottle is a sixteen ounce,
It seems like sixteen pound,
As I drag it square upon the chair
And roll it round and round.
I jab my tools in water
I jab them in charcoal,
I jab them at the bottle's neck,
But there! I've missed the hole;
And the bottle neck is a total wreck
Because of an extra roll.