BIG GEORDIE.

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Big Geordie was a miner,
on those hacky black coal seams.
This working man, none finer,
held a pocket full of dreams.

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This bloke enjoyed a smoke,and toyed,
with calling it a day.
But since a boy,he'd been employed,
and knew no other way.

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Geordie stood atop the Pit shaft,
smoking rollies to the butt.
No smiles or ciggies after,
that steel gate had slammed tight shut.

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With a Davy Lamp in one hand,
and his bait box in the other.
Descending deeper with a band,
of comrades,more like brothers.

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The clanging and the shudder of,
that dull descending cage.
That brought good men from up above,
to earn a grafters wage.

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The men would all fall silent as,
they knew what lay ahead.
Stretched longways swinging axes,
weighing heavier than lead.

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Sharp contrast with the morning sun,
could not have been more stark.
It was anything but fun,
and was perpetually dark.

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Big Geordie worked his socks off,
till his aching hands would bleed.
All this despite his barking cough,
(he'd hungry mouths to feed)

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Shift at an end the lads ascend,
each one as black as crows
A quick smile for oncoming friends,
then hot baths and fresh clothes.

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Year in year out,they'd show their clout,
fine fellows head to toe.
Then word came down around the town,
their jobs would have to go.

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The Rising sun was all but done,
the Government called it time.
No longer would that pit still run,
onwards of sixty nine.

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With work now hard to come by,
and Geordie feeling so betrayed.
He resolved to head for Cotgrave,
down there Nottinghamshire way.

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A few of Geordie's comrades went,
and near the mines they settled.
All for a wage that payed the rent,
Big Geordie showed his mettle.

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For fifteen years without a care,
a worker in his prime.
The black stuff of the highest grade,
came from that Cotgrave mine.

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The work was hard ,the work was tough,
Big Geordie did his bit.
But even that was not enough,
they closed this thriving pit.

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But not before those men so proud,
stood firmly for their rights.
With staunch support from all around,
they fought the gallant fight.

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The papers used Psychology,
to gain the hearts and minds.
Did Thatcher get those army men,
to bash those picket lines?

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Now Geordie and his black stuff kings,
lived life out on the dole.
As just like all the other things,
we imported our coal!!

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Big Geordie was a mining man,
Until the day he died.
They took his pocket full for dreams,
but couldn't take his pride!!

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Copyright James Bridgewood.