(Durchkomponiert And Ottava Rima)


                                                 Camptown Races: 

The blackleg miner goes to work:
                                        Doo dah,
                                        Doo dah.

The dirty, rotten, scabbing jerk:
                                        Doo dah,
                                        Doo dah.

The blackleg miner is a louse:
                                             Doo dah,
                                             Doo dah.

We'll go burn down his scabbing house:
                                             Doo dah,
                                             Doo dah.

                                                 At Seventeen: 
                                                 Janis Ian

He learned the truth week seventeen,
A-working he should nevrabeen,
They spat at Jimmy in the street,
Because he tried to make ends meet.     
His wife they called a slag and whore,
She trembled scared behind their door,
His children suffered at their school
Because their father was a fool.

                                                 Year Of The Cat: 
                                                 Al Stewart and Peter Wood

On a morning from a Yorkshire strike-break,
In a village where his name is slime,
He goes walking through the pickets 
To his daily labour
To get covered in grime.

They stand out in the sun
And they're chanting slowly,
All sorts of dirty, hurtful names,
No rhyme, no reason, 
It's just appalling,
And a terrible shame,
As he walks to the mine.

                                                 The Lincolnshire Poacher:

Yer dirty, rotten, little scab,
We'll cut your baby's throat,
The filthy lucre that you grab
Won't give you cause to gloat,
Cos when the strike is over boy,
The pigs will disappear,
For the rest of your life,
You, your kids and your wife
Are gonna be living here.

Eventually you'll realise
That what you did was wrong,
For very soon you'll pay the price,
Your time will not be long,
For there'll be murder done round here,
The victim will be thee
We string the blackleg
Like a shirt on a peg
From the local Tyburn Tree.


Scab! Scab! Scab! Scab! It echoed through his brain,
Each time he passed, he heard that awful roar,
For seventeen long weeks he'd borne the strain,
But now the wolf was knocking at his door.
What else was there to do but bear the pain
And, teeth clenched, make his way to work once more?
So that was what he did. What happened to
The mates he once had; men he thought he knew?

They spat on him, they called him filth and scum,
His little daughter when she went to school
Was told her Dad was dirt, and that her Mum
Took strange men home; his son was treated cruel':
Kids beat him verbally till he was numb,
Big boys hit him, held him in ridicule;
His wife went to the doctor with her nerves.
They cursed: Scum only gets what they deserves!

Bricks through the windows, shit smeared on his car,
Anonymous phone calls with subtle threats,
Letters, always obscene, often bizarre;
Give up now Jimmy, afore thee regrets!
Too late! no backing down, he'd gone too far,
Mortgage arrears, gas bills and other debts,
Then on your own head be it, faithless son,
But you'll be sorry 'fore this strike is done.

Eventually the miner gave up work,
Gave up his job, moved to a different town,
Five months of hate he'd borne, now as a clerk
He looked back on his boyhood with a frown,
For always in his mind there seemed to lurk
A sinister shadow of greyish-brown.
Scab! They'd called him in hate; what happened to
The mates he once had; men he thought he knew?

[The above was written in 1984 or 1985. As will be seen from the relevant link, Camptown Races was actually written by Stephen Foster, but when I wrote this, it had been around long enough to be considered a traditional song.]

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