The sound of a falling log

Rows and rows of fog

Steam belches from the machine

Mugs full of caffeine 

The inventor works fervently 

His crane watches observantly

Making a luminous animatronic 

Sphere bombs that are atomic

His workshop full of bronze and brass 

Golden cyborgs blowing glass 

Incandescent fires blazing 

The inventor raising

His eyes red as the autumn leaves 

The machine groaning and creaking, he cleaves

A log of wood in two 

Submerging it in the blue 

Water of the steaming forge

A river running from the gargantuan gorge

Up on high in Olympus, the heavens

The gods wait on the inventor of weapons 

To deliver their shining equipment

The cantankerous inventor delivers his shipment

To the omnipotent beings above