The Gift of Poverty
Our school days are gone, we surrender our youth
Our fantasies are shattered, we discover the truth
The only way forward, we are led to believe
Too young in our mind, too young to conceive
The factories are calling, excitement to our mind
Epoch of an era to which we are blind
Delusions of grandeur flow through our brain
Borderline slavery, we are soon to attain.
Thunder of hammers that beat steel to shape
The heat of the furnace, the sweat down our nape
A twelve hour shift, for a pittance of pay
No time for the family, no time to play.
The cough of the sparrow, the bark of the hound
The billowing smoke, from the chimneys around
Black face of the children, scruffy and pale
Dressed only in rags and legs like brush stales.
And when work is over, we stagger away
And crawl to our beds, until the next day
But try as we may, we can not escape
The gift of poverty, our legacy and fate.
Copyright © 2007 Mick Coyle