Underneath the soil,
lies a soul who in life knew nothing but toil.
With stiff fingers and aching back.
The man slammed the pickaxe that created a crack.
To fill the wagon as it set off in its track.
But the man could not afford to slack.
From early morning to late a' night.
Without ever seeing the sun's light.
He worked in the black bowels of earth.
Long were he away from home's hearth.
The damp air and darkened gloom.
Held the promise of doom.
He knew this place could be his tomb.
His father's fate had ended thus.
A collapsing tunnel left a lasting hush.
Amidst the smoke and dust,
emerged only mistrust.
In his heart he felt disgust.
For the men whose pockets reaped,
hefty sums from the desceased.
The rage boiled in his belly.
He hardly ever saw an 'enny.
Of his own hard labour.
His mood became more dour.
When his wife and child,
was forced to provide.
For the family's need.
The industry's greed,
made them pay no heed,
to those that guaranteed,
the continued flow of coal.
That they stole out of hell's hole.