Ho ro, hi ri, ho ro. O hi, o ho, hi ri. Before it was worn, it was beaten into shape. Ho ro, hi ri, ho ro. Before it had a number, it learned the weight. Hands on the table. Wool under palm. Ho ro, hi ri, ho ro. Strike. Turn. Pull it along. Strike. Turn. Pull it through. Blue in the water. White in the thread. Ho ro, hi ri, ho ro. A country pressed flat under hands gone red. O hi, o ho, hi ri. No roar yet. No field. No name. Strike. Turn. Pull it through. Only the cloth taking the same hard rhythm again. Ho ro, hi ri, ho ro. Strike. Turn. Pull it through. Ho ro, hi ri, ho ro. The cloth grows soft. The hands do not. Before it was worn, it was beaten into shape. Eleven will wear it under the lights. Ho ro, hi ri, ho ro. A number will pull at the back of the neck. Strike. Turn. Pull it through. A scarf will rise above the rain. O hi, o ho, hi ri. A stand will sing until the throat goes white. Ho ro, hi ri, ho ro. But here, at the table, nothing stands tall. Strike. Turn. Pull it through. Only the rhythm. Only the call. Ho ro, hi ri, ho ro. The cloth grows soft. The work does not end. Ho ro, hi ri, ho ro. Strike. Turn. Pull it through. Ho ro, hi ri, ho ro. The cloth grows soft. The hands do not. Before it was worn, it was beaten into shape. A flag can cover a shoulder. It cannot roof the room. Ho ro, hi ri, ho ro. A shirt can carry a number. It cannot carry you. O hi, o ho, hi ri. Still, the hands come down. Strike. Turn. Pull it through. Still, the voices stay. Still, the cloth learns what the body has to pay. Ho ro, hi ri, ho ro. Strike. Turn. Pull it through. Ho ro, hi ri, ho ro. The cloth grows soft. The hands do not. Before it was worn, it was beaten into shape. The cloth took the colour. The hands kept the weight. The shirt came clean. The hands did not. Ho ro, hi ri, ho ro.
