Pig Iron

Cumberland was a land of iron and steel, a land of wealth: at least for some. Now the works are desolate , the railway lines carved across the landscape overgrown, and the remaining weary men grasping for their last breaths.

The hot sticky dust-carrying air

Ebbs around the gloomy roof,

Smoked rafters over our weary heads

Shadow the beads of sweat

On rippling muscle- leather-clad.

The red glow burns the arches of hell-

Silhouettes the brothers sweating

For their daily bread.

Feed it through!

Feed it through!

Liquid money buying the silks

For the rich man’s daughter.

There’s no stopping the flow:

Feed it through!

This pig is not for the slaughter!

As the iron boils and

Bubbles burst

Like the spirit of weary men.