The poem read by Angus McDermott
at the Coaltown Tavern the night before
his pit boss pulled him from the mine to fire him
See that whitewashed church, you working people,
And that sanctimonious asshole in white.
The company owns that church, lock stock and steeple
And has the preacher sewn up just as tight.
If I've told you this twice, I'm saying it again.
There ain't any God for us working men.
Sure, religion's good for our wives and wee folk.
It brings them solace, some comfort to seek out
When they hunger, the baby's dying, or the yoke
Of wage slavery hurts so much you just have to shout.
A working man knows though, that it's all just a joke;
Just company preachers blowing company smoke.
"Labor not for wealth in this life," they smugly say,
"But lay up your treasure for the next."
The company must have found their own way
To interpret this, or reads from a diff'rent text.
They live in brick houses, and drive their fancy cars.
They add to their vast fortunes by short-changing ours.
You can bet that the bible-thumper's sermon
Has been approved by the company brass.
If you think you'll get God's word from those vermin,
You stupid bastards can just kiss my ass.
They tell you, "Be content with your lot in this life,
Work hard, distrust Unions; just go home to the wife."
We tunnel rats sit in back on folding chairs
While the owner's family hogs the front pew.
If we step out of place we get hostile stares
From company spies who watch what we do.
There ain't any God for us working men,
The damn owners have bought him off too.
Had enough of the company store, low wages and lies?
Had enough of their religion? Join me and unionize!
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