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!