He walks by slightly bent forward
with his hands clasped behind his back,
for he's a coal miner.
You couldn't guess his age.
He may be thirty and appear
to be fifty.
He's a coal miner.
He neither loves nor hates his work.
He's spent endless hours,
hundreds of feet beneath the earth,
as he toils in the dark dan
gerous dampness,
he awaits another view of daylight.
He'll fol low this cycle
until his mortal life is spent
and then his remains will wait for the eons
to change him to the cold that he's
faced all the days of his adult life.
Perhaps in another age
someone will ironically refer to
his remains as black gold,
for he too will be a coal miner.
There's a breed of man
that I know well,
cause we are kith and kin.
From the pearly gates to
the brink of hell,
you'll find these certain men.
Their youth flies fast, and then alas,
Before their time they're old,
They've sacrificed all the time
that's passed for cold.
A certain mark on all these men
Of some sort is in view
For black coal dust beneath the skin
Will leave a scar of blue
So on his hands are a pallid face,
The tale in part is told,
How he has labored at the face of coal,
Black gold.
As these men labor at their craft
Like snails the hours creep by
Oh, hear their empty, hollow laugh
A laugh that hides a cry
But not a cry that brings a tear,
Each man is brave and bold,
Or he would not be
diggin' here for coal,
Black gold.
There's a breed of man that I know well
A man black gold allures
And more than human tongue can tell
Are hardships he en dures
Each line upon his face
engraved from nature's special mold
The man who sweated,
worked and slaved for coal
Black gold
Thank