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Poem by Robert William Service
Toil's a tunnel, there's no way out For fellows, the like o' me; A beggar wi' only a crust an' a clout At the worst o' the worst is free; but I work to eat, an' I eat to work; It's always the same old round, And I dassent fail for the day I shirk They'll shovel me underground. I guess God meant it to be that way, For a man must make his bread; I was born to bondage, to earn my pay, To slave to the day I'm dead; To live in a tunnel, to die in a ditch - That's just what us fellows do; For the poor must be makin' the rich more rich, An' the many must serve the few. Aye, we live in a tunnel, most o' us, A-fearin' to lose our job; But who has the right to gripe an' cuss So the goblet's hot on the hob. An' I mustn't be havin' the wife complain, An' I can't let the childer fast: So I'll toil in my tunnel an' drag my chain, Clank! Clank! Clank! to the last.
Robert William Service
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