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His face
is black, his cough is heavy,
He works far underground,
A breed apart, one-of-a-kind,
His type is hard to be found.
He works
in the dark from nine to five,
And sees not the light of day,
And when he is done he stands in line,
Just waiting for his pay.
His wife
and children are waiting at home,
They worry when he is away,
They hate that damned old coal mine,
And wonder why he wants to stay.
Then news
of a cave-in spreads through town,
There's panic on everyone's faces,
The mine has been buried and so have the men,
They're gone and without any traces.
There's
weeping and praying, there's cursing and more,
But everyone there pitches in,
They work through the evening and then through the
day
Just looking for loved-ones and kin.
Now in
the dark distance they see a small glimmer,
The light from a helmet is there,
And then in the rubble they see the coal miner,
Which causes the people to stare.
For over
one shoulder he carries a miner,
And with his right hand drags another,
His life he would forfeit if they needed him,
He cares for them like they were brothers.
These
days he just sits and thinks of the mine,
And tears overwhelm like a flood,
And often he wishes that he was still there,
For coal dust is still in his blood.
by David Ronald Bruce Pekrul
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