The Beckoning Poetry Post Page

He spends his life crawling
On his hands and knees
In the entrails of a dark tunnel
Wading through mud and water
Burrowing himself deep
In unfathomable darkness, daily
To get killed, maimed
Or struck with black lung disease
Or buried alive in the sinking debris.

A perk, a privilege, a risk, a curse
He accepts all happily.
When they talk of moving the industry
From man to machine
First to protest is he
Against the insidious plot
To snatch his bread.
Few love death so
In order to live.