All the World’s a Factory All the world’s a factory, And all the men and women merely labor. They enter at a whistle, leave by exhaustion, And one person in their time works many roles, Their life divided into seven shifts. At first, the new hire, Soft-handed, blinking under fluorescent lights, Taught to stand still, taught to be quiet, Broken in by repetition and long hours, Learning quickly that rest is not included. Then the trainee, Back aching, lungs full of dust, Counting minutes instead of dreams, Hands blistered, voice swallowed by machines, Already replaceable. And then the young worker, Fast, cheap, and desperate, Skipping meals to meet quotas, Mistaking endurance for purpose, Believing pain means progress. Next the veteran, Shoulders bent, hearing dulled by years of noise, Knowing every flaw in the system And staying anyway, Because leaving costs more than staying. After that, the foreman, Promoted just enough to lose solidarity, Repeating orders they do not believe in, Watching friends collapse while meeting numbers, Learning power does not equal safety. The sixth shift brings the worn-out body, Injured, slower, easier to blame, Given fewer hours, fewer chances, A liability disguised as experience, Waiting to be phased out. Last of all, that final shift, Ending this long, grinding process, Is the discarded worker— Badge taken, station reassigned, Left with nothing but damaged hands And the memory of years that built everything but themselves.
