The old wooden slab
of a worktable surface
with lines etched and scratched
for some forgotten purpose

There sat the tinker at work
The room was permeated in grease
just like his apron and shirt
and his overalls' knees

His mind was also oiled well
Like the machines he made
Sometimes it seemed they fell
right out from his brain

The place was a mess
of gears and pins
and filled with the best
rivets in bins

Laid out in fashion
to match his soul
This was his passion
from days long ago

Earlier than the sun he rose
and late the night was before he'd stop
This was the life his heart chose
Here in his beloved tinker's workshop