I heard the elders talking-o
About the coppers and the bosses and how they break the backs
Of all the working people-o…
Three died in the mines and the waiting widows wept
And the miners rallied in the union hall
Then they marched up the cobblestone streets with the dead
And the black mariahs (*) waiting round the bend.
"Go back to work, you bloody dogs
Or we will have your skins you know"
But the men cried «Never!» and the truncheon crack hard
On the skull of every worker-o
It's work for your supper and work for your bed
And work till your eyes are bloody red
Eight weary days of working and a rotten piece of bread
And you'll sure as hell be working till the day that you're dead.
Eight weary days of working and a rotten piece of bread…
..And you'll sure as hell be working till the day that you're dead.
Contributed by giorgio - 2010/1/4 - 19:01
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