Dust my blues

Dust my blues

March me back

From the edge

Too far gone

To be found

Under the mountain

Covered in dirt

Hard-packed sorrow

Full of rusted tears

Iron shod.

My back is broken

By the plough

Sharp blades are for

The poor boys

Taking a shilling

For the right to bear arms

Against the grain

I carried the fight

Brought low

By the misery

Beaten to the punch

By a storm

Of blood and stone

There is no sense

In trying to unpick

The reason for it

Men and women die

On the turn of a card

Hard work is no

Protection

Flesh is all they need

And it is taken.

Stripped of purpose

A man

Is a donkey

With less worth

And little of value

To sell on.