Monday, March 06, 2006

Don’t Cha) Bury A Working Man (For the workers and Woody Guthrie)

Stretching my soul over a conveyor of steel
For every strip of human flesh it rolls
Soot caking on my face and the wheel
Deep into a poverty mansions hole

I heard my footsteps along the gravel
I stopped as the dust from my clothes
Hit the door before me as I unraveled
I sunk into the floor until I didn’t know

Houses line the fences like headstones
The yards are the only thing alive
A palace like this could never be a home
Where the kids have stopped crying

How hot does hell get before you feel the chill
How slow can you melt the steel before its filled
I look at the scars I got at work just today
Where in the hell did hell come from anyway

Chorus:

It’s an insult to bury a working man in his skin
What does the ground know about where it’s been


- Chris Mansel

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