Clang Poem by Bill Wright

Clang

Clang, clang, clang
The rivets sang,
Across the heaving yard.
Worker ants by the thousand,
Swarm over the huge Q4.
Gangers, red leaders, riveters and chippies,
Every man doing his job,
All singing the song of the Clyde.

The master craftsmen ply their trades,
Building a ship fit for a Queen,
Each man knows this river's past,
What their fathers and grandpas have seen,
By the sweat of their brow,
The toil of their hands,
And the pride they take in their work,
They honour the men gone before.

In Dante's Dungeon arc welders work,
In a heat unknown to man,
Each one dressed in heavy mask,
The blazing sparks do fly,
These men have the hardest job,
But important all the same,
Welding the hull is their vital work,
The safety of the ship in their hands.

A weary auditor pores over the books,
Down in his windowless cell,
Trying each and every sum.
With a heavy heart,
He turns and says,
''It's no use, John'',
''When this one's finished, ''
''I'm afraid the yard is done.

The hammers are all silent now,
No shouts of working men,
The Receiver wanders round the yard,
This now is his domain,
Where once the sounds of metal rang,
All is deathly quiet now,
He pulls the last big gates shut,
Clang, clang, clang.