Coal Not Dole
(Sutcliffe)
It stands so proud, the wheels so still,
A ghost-like figure on the hill.
It seems so strange, there is no sound,
Now there are no men underground.
What will become of this pit-yard,
Where men once trampled faces hard?
Tir
ed and weary, their work done,
Never having seen the sun.
Will it become like sacred ground?
Foreign tourists gazing round.
Asking if men once worked here,
Way beneath this pit-head gear.
Empty trucks once filled with coal,

Lined up like men on t
he dole.

Will they e're be used again,

Or left for scrap just like the men?


There'll always be a happy hour

For those with money, jobs and power.

They'll never realise the hurt,

They cause to men they treat like dirt.


What will become of
this pit-yard,

Where men once trampled faces hard?

Tired and weary, their work done,

Never having seen the sun.


There'll always be a happy hour

For those with money, jobs and power.

They'll never realise the hurt,

They do to them they treat
like dirt.