Porcupine.

Where the sounds of a porcupine,
ribbit tides in my spin.
The spike clock drive big stock,
and the workhorse soon wrinkles.
The sweat that collects in the
concrete drain will be pressed
by new eras which take heavy slumber
a top one another.
The sweat will be harvest.
Will be oil for a new eon
when lamp light it the least
of man's worries.
Where the sight of a porcupine
spike belt makes you stand up
straight and produce
a little quicker.