Oh, over the factory cities there seems to hover a
doom
so dark, so dark, the mind is lost in it.
Ah, the industrial masses, with the iron hook through
their gills,
when the evil angler has played them long enough,
another little run for their money, a few more turns of the
reel
fixing the hook more tightly, getting it more firmly in
—
Ah, when he begins to draw the line in tight, to land
his fish,
the industrial masses - Ah, what will happen, what will
happen?
Hark! the strange noise of millions of fish in
panic,
in panic, in rebellion, slithering millions of fish
whistling and seething and pulling the angler down into
boiling
black death!