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THE SONG OF THE WAGE-SLAVE (Robert Service) Look at my face, toil-furrowed; look at my calloused hands Master, I've done thy bidding, wrought in thy many lands Wrought for the little masters. Big-bellied they be, and rich I have done their desire for a daily hire, and I die like a dog in a ditch But when the long, long day is over, and the big boss gives me my pay I hope that it won't be hell-fire, as some of the parsons say And I hope that it won't be heaven, with some of the parsons I've met All I want is just quiet, just to rest and forget Thou knowest my sins are many, and often I have played the fool Whisky and cards and women, they made me the devil's tool And I was just like a child with money; I flung it away with a curse Feasting a fawning parasite, or glutting a harlot's purse Living in camps with men-folk, a lonely and loveless life Never knew kiss of sweetheart, never caress of wife I with the strength of two men, but savage and shy and wild Yet how I'd have treasured a woman, and the sweet warm kiss of a child I, the primitive toiler, half-naked and grimed to the eyes Sweating it deep in their ditches, or swining it stark in their sties Hurling down forests before me, spanning tumultuous streams Down in the ditch, building o'er me palaces fairer than dreams Master, I have filled my contract, wrought in thy many lands Not by my sins wilt thou judge me, but by the work of my hands Master, I've done thy bidding, and the light is low in the West And the long, long shift is over -- Master, I've earned it: Rest. note: Marla Fibish put the tune and edited the words, 1989 JN @labor @work filename[ WAGESLAV JN |
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