At five a.m. one summer day,
In Auburn where the workmen stay,
A man named Jeff, just twenty-five,
Was up and ready, strong, alive.
He grabbed a can from off the rack,
Then strode the hall and didn’t look back.
At Bastion Plating, parts were made,
With chrome and tools, in heat they wade.
His job was tough, the risk was clear,
But camaraderie drew him near.
A family forged in steel and flame,
They knew each face, they knew each name.
This morning though, would not go right,
Though all began in morning light.
To fix a tank, Jeff took that can,
And walked toward it like any man.
He stepped inside without a pause,
To clean the tank—it had no flaws.
But deep within, unseen to eyes,
A deadly ghost began to rise.
A thud was heard—then silence came.
A coworker looked, but saw no flame.
Just Jeff, collapsed upon the floor,
Inside that tank, he breathed no more.
A second man ran in to aid,
But he too fell, his senses swayed.
Then two more came, with fear and dread,
And like the rest, they too dropped dead.
The watcher ran to get some aid,
While chaos in the plant cascade.
For when he came with others fast,
They stumbled too—the spell was cast.
Men staggered round, they choked and fell,
As fumes began to weave their spell.
The factory spun in toxic haze,
Like nightmare born from smoky blaze.
Then sirens screamed, and help arrived,
But even they could not survive.
With every breath, their heads would spin—
The gas had reached and pulled them in.
It wasn’t till in safety gear,
That truth at last became quite clear.
The tank Jeff entered, not long dried,
Once held zinc cyanide inside.
And in his hand, that cleaning jar—
He’d chosen wrong, by just a hair.
When mixed, they formed a deadly cloud,
Of cyanide, both strong and loud.
A gas so vile, it kills unseen,
It swept the floor, wiped spaces clean.
Poor Jeff had never stood a chance,
Nor those who joined his fatal dance.
In all, that day, the toll was grim—
Thirty-nine rushed to hospitals dim.
But five were lost, their lives cut short,
By chemicals no man should court.
Let Jeff’s tale now forever ring,
Of factory floors and death’s quick sting.
A simple can, a small mistake,
And lives were gone in cyanide’s wake.