The Lock-In

Slavery split up nice,
But production's put on ice.
Where are the beers?
This is nowhere near focus.
Attention's at its lowest,
We're the slowest from the start.
But this glue will cool
As we tool it all night,
Putting together
To never pull apart.
Radiate a mass of land
With the wobbly fist
Of a can-clutched hand,
Which broke the fall
Onto the floor on which you slept
And then on which you eventually wet.
On which the other threw a shout,
The flow reversed,
And spilled about.
This is viral and embarrassing,
The way brotherhood is meant to be.