Underneath the sour 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.
Yet the man could not afford to slack.
From early morn 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.
It reminded that this place could well become his tomb.
His father's fate had ended thus.
A collapsing tunnel created a lasting hush.
Admit the smoke and dust,
emerged only mistrust.
In his heart he felt disgust.
For the people whose pockets reaped,
heafty sums from the desceased.
The rage boiled in his belly.
He hardly ever saw an 'enny,
of his own hard labour.
His mood became even more dour.
As his wife and youngest child,
was forced to also provide.
For the family's need.
The industries growing greed,
made them pay no heed.
To those that guaranteed.
The continued flow of smoky coal,
that they stole out of hells hole.