Epitaph to the Unknown miner written by Peter Ivan Fryman

                I'm in a crude macabre mood
                So a moment I will ponder
                To put my thoughts in poetry
                And let them stray and wander – but
                There is no poetry in the pit - but toil
                I've found no reason in the pit – but toil
                What makes a man go down
                A mile beneath his town
                When the sun is fine warm ?
                But Toil ?                
                So an Epitaph I'll write and it will serve
                For the two minutes silence unobserved
                For those who gave their lives so live and whole
                Died on no fields but those of brittle coal

                On cenotaphs i've looked in many a square
                Strange - I find no memory of them there
                Rough men – their class they never shammed
                And cared not if the pious called them dammed
                They lived their lives as good as any
                And sweated blood to earn their penny
                But now they're gone but where you say
                To heaven or the damp earth clay

                Just stand awhile and contemplate man's sorrow
                Why wait for heaven as we await tomorrow
                Is God the messenger of help
                What are your views
                I ask my friends
                They say they have no news

                So posthumously if that be any use
                We'll make a promise – keep it to the letter
                That with exploiters there will be no truce
                And show them that the living can do better

                Roll on the bay of socialism's dawn
                When brave mankind will find it need not mourn
                Then apathy we'll cast in to the bin
                And roll our sleeves up for that world to win

                Now the Epitaph
                Then shall we be an honoured race
                Though tired in body and black in face
                Respect will come from quarters round
                Where formerly none e'er was found
                And the smug whe of our labours had their whack
                While find our boots can make their arses black