A Little Song about Tweaking

All around, everywhere there are Tweakers
Tweaking busily little bits of information,
Humming a vague melody, tying their laces,
Busily sifting, knotting names with faces.

Groping in the crevices of their cerebrums,
Swilling black coffee with cubes of sweet,
The Tweakers soundlessly mouth phrases
Filling in the grayish-white hollow spaces.

No they are not evaders, nor do they lie;
The Tweakers smile a little with self-pride:
Nosing their way, boring deeper and deeper
They split hairs better than rough winter.

Ferreting out furtive facts from underneath
Desks, novels, clothing and waste paper bins;
Analyzing, pondering, linking, Tweaking,
Fixing, retrieving, weighing, and cleaning.

Busy-bodies most efficiently bridging time
From the stroke of the hand from six to nine,
Poor Tweakers, they need to rest their feet-
They are tired of shuttling from soul to street.