Mark Heathcote

Silver Star - 3,575 Points (22/03/66 / Manchester)

I’ll Work My Fingers To The Bone - Poem by Mark Heathcote

I work for that bedrock of stones
To buy me only a few stale loafs
I work for that pay cheque
I work my fingers to the bone
Just to give my wife a home
To scratch around feeling cold
I work for that pay cheque
That’s gone even before I’m home

If there’s a God of creation
He’s in a minority group of one
Yet, he’ll not tolerate discrimination
Or Prejudice racism by none.
So I promise him I’ll stay strong
Face tomorrow by the barrel of gun
I’ll stay strong just as long
As we go that extra furlong.

I’ll work my fingers to the bone
Just to give you my wife a home
Trying to keep you from going hungry
Trying to keep you from the cold
The wolfs baying on your doorstep
I’ll work my fingers to the bone
Each day just to sidestep
Away from the devil waiting outside
For me and you, for me and you!


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Poem Submitted: Sunday, May 11, 2014

Poem Edited: Sunday, May 11, 2014


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