The music needs to be changed to something that reeks
of heavy industry. Otherwise, the tone of the original song
speaks well of the dying breed called 'machinists'.

Bad Cobalt

Clausing lathe, Ever under the gun,
Coolant shave, turning's never fun.
I was formed, a lathe-bit in my hand,
Behind a grinder, I grind what's in my hand. (grinding noises)

It's why I call 'em
Bad Cobalt, And I won't deny.
Bad Cobalt, And that ain't no lie,
And that ain't no lie. (May I die if I lie)

Contract men, that's what we're called,
Fatted calf, ready for death, we're oxen stalled,
Every firm, they all know our names,
Making chips, is our sole clame to fame.

(and we're bought and sold like comodities)

I can hear them say,

Bad Cobalt, and I won't lie,
Bad Cobalt, red-hard, won't die.
Red-hard, won't die.

(Fades out to the sound of a grinder, whispered words,
Mo-Max Cobalt (repeated 3X)