Here, Atlas, hefts the sky to his shoulders, enobled by the noble work that he has set about to do, with the creamy golden rays of the sun slithering down his poccine torso, he, Atlas, the WORKER-PIG, the industry of thought, blends with those selfsame creamy golden rays his opulescent sweat and the social-mind of his work lifts its sagging face to the North-Wind and howls, barks and coughs like a watermelon left alone with a box of Dutch Masters and a dream for a BETTER AMERICA.
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Here, Atlas, hefts the sky to his shoulders, enobled by the noble work that he has set about to do, with the creamy golden rays of the sun slithering down his poccine torso, he, Atlas, the WORKER-PIG, the industry of thought, blends with those selfsame creamy golden rays his opulescent sweat and the social-mind of his work lifts its sagging face to the North-Wind and howls, barks and coughs like a watermelon left alone with a box of Dutch Masters and a dream for a BETTER AMERICA.
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