To a Factory Whistle

O grim-voiced Demon, soulless Monster, why
Must I your summons heed, nor fail to come
When you would call me back to toil, while some
Loiter along the way? Is your hoarse cry
For me alone? May these stand idly by,
Yet take the loaf and leave me but the crumb?
Surely, justice is dead, or else turned dumb:
Why does my brother loiter and not I?
Or why, with bended back and pain-wracked frame,
Must I, for these long, weary hours each day,
Stifle both sense and soul? Is it that he
May live and labor not? Justice? A name!
I toil that both may live and he may play.
Why are these things so? Grim Monster, answer me!
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