Deep in the heart of the factory, there's only one worker left to see,
no energy left for working, no energy left to sing,
his hair is grey, his eyes are white, his voice is all but spent,
but there's enough left in him, for the Oopma Loompa's lament.
...
Charlie Bucket, the one who'll luck it,
and saw it through to the end,
he became our new master, what else was he after?
was he ever truly a friend?
As each child left, he said not a word,
but we saw in his eyes, it's what he preferred,
his competition was gone and the whole thing benign,
the smile said it all, "now everything's mine."
So he saw one get squashed and he saw one inflated,
(we'll admit we all wanted the brat incinerated)
he just stood there in silence, watching the freaks,
soon everything was open to a couple of tweaks.
Then the factory was his, and we'll always know this,
that his expression was one when we knew we should run,
as he spread out his arms and said to us all,
"patronising freaks, I'll see your last fall."
...
The old one takes pause to reflect on the tale,
from a lost time when he wasn't so frail,
but he knows in his bones that his time is near done,
once he's recalled when they tried to run.
...
We ran and we hid and we tried different rooms,
that ultimately turned into personal tombs.
(For years people out there bought the new sweets,
never knowing who, not what, they ate in their treats)
We staff were first under Bucket's domain,
a cultivation out of shattered constrain,
only now do we know what started the pain,
that Charlie didn't want music again.
Old master clapped and smiled for all four of our rounds,
while Charlie was there all silent and frowns,
he hated our lessons, our morals in rhyme,
and plotted revenge, just biding his time.
So this requiem ends with the truth now known,
our twisted tale with all horror shown,
why the apparent "good child", old master's puppet,
had no fifth song, to him, Charlie Bucket.
