Having referred to 'slightly adapted lyrics' I realised it might be a good idea to post them!

I would like to use these in a production of a play about the Woodingdean Well, near Brighton.

It Stands so proud, the wheel so still
A ghost-like figure on the hill
It seems so strange there is no sound
Now there are no men underground.

What will become of this old well
Where men once dug their path through hell?
Tired and weary their shift done
Never having seen the sun.

Will it become a sacred ground?
Foreign tourists gazing round
Asking if men once worked here
Way beneath this pit up here.

And did shovels weak and sharp
Hit chalky rocks beneath the dark?
Will they ere be used again?
Of left for scrap just like the men.

There'll always be a happy hour
For those with money, jobs and power.
They'll never realize the hurt
They do to them they treat like dirt.