The working man 

The working man


Hands of tarnished black

That yield the anthracite vein.

Carrying heavy history

Of passion blood and pain.

And yet a song so emotional

With brother a harmonic throng

In the deepness of the valley

Is born a poets song.

For chiseled in the darkness

The sound of hope and light.

And the anguish colliers passion

With hwyl and gusto bright.

Out of the pits of comrades

One hears the engine sound.

The heart of a choir

The family underground.

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