With ev'ry inch of steel,
Its whole chassis was an engine of will,
Tracks, extension of wheels,
Nothing existed for it but the goal,
Not hatred or e'en love,
For it, the world was the top of a hill,
Nothing existed below or above,
If its maker had stood strong before it,
He would have lost his life,
Cursed for th'extra effort his body claimed,
As steel cut like a knife.
That's th'way with goals,
They're outside re-al'ty,
What world could accommodate human whims,
And maintain some kind of society?
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