Delinquent Factory

It once housed bowels of cars in this town, Carcasses on the ground, It cannibalized every bit of machine, And fed the hungry crowd, Til now, shades of blue and fired up pink, Splash the walls of steel, Inside this tortured derelict plant, Alone in the vacant field, And there's scratching tin in the wind, There's a steady distant hum, A painting of delinquent youth, Is what it has become, With a chair, a table, a busted ash tray, Golf balls to sail away, This beautiful coloured factory shell, Is where the children play.