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 paycheque
I work my fingers to the bone
to give my wife a home
to scratch around, feeling cold
I work for that paycheque
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 a gun
I'll stay strong; just as long
as we go that-extra-furlong.

I'll work my fingers to the bone
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.