The rocks that stained the calloused hands
Of them who strained to break the land
Would burn so hot to smelt the ore
And draw forth what would long endure

Molded metals of pipes and kettles
Cans and tubes, springs and hinges
Polished and shining when steam settles
Take care since bare skin boils when it singes

Bent and fitting each piece in place
The smith's brow frozen on his face
Soaked in sweat and tense in task
Finishing keys, plates and flasks

Art and architecture met above our streets
While gawkers met hawkers just beneath
Towers of steam rose over all of us
In our busy and bright Copperopolis