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“The Foundry Man All day, every day; a head that pounds to the rhythm of beating hammers. Feet, numbed from the vibrations of heavy machinery, and skin that glows crimson from the blistering heat of the furnace. Sweat glistens on his furrowed brow, sweat that runs in rivulets to eyes already sore from black, putrid dust. This is the lot of the foundry man. Not for him fresh air, green fields, or the sun on his back. He has a heart of gold, strength of steel. He is a man of iron.” — Mrs A. Perry
The Foundry Man
All day, every day; a head
that pounds to the rhythm
of beating hammers.
Feet, numbed from the
vibrations of heavy
machinery, and skin that
glows crimson from the
blistering heat of the
furnace.
Sweat glistens on his
furrowed brow,
sweat that runs in rivulets
to eyes already sore from
black, putrid dust.
This is the lot of
the foundry man.
Not for him fresh
air, green fields,
or the sun on
his back.
He has a
heart of
gold,
strength
of steel.
He is a man
of iron.