The British Steel. Poem by Tony Cooney

I started working in the boiler room. The first year there was as a wooden broom.

"Sweep those floors clean and make them shine".
I knew the floors there were not that kind.

The sweat and dirt soaks into your shirt.
Black heavy boots for the new recruit.
Grease and oil, no electric coil. Heat and steam and a lifting beam.

The taste of heavy metals on my tongue.
Silver dust lands on everyone.
A fiery furnace at the gates of hell. Flashing beacons and warning bell.

Working hard on the production line.
Watch young men growing old before their time.
Molten metal splashes everywhere.
Near misses and a warning prayer.

Then output was up and we have won a cup.
To show the rest that we are the best.
"This team works" photos on the wall.
The strongest men with the biggest balls.

Then silence, in the pressing halls. Watching slowly as the empire falls.
Seven hundred jobs have to go.
The union man said he didn't know.

Talks fail and we are on the news. If I could sing then I would sing the blues.
I had saved some money for a rainy day.
it's rained so hard the money floated away.

Sitting on the interrogation chair. Just sign here and just sign there.
"We don't believe you meet the required rules.
Looking at me like a scrounging fool.

The taste of heavy metal is in my tongue. There's no work and I don't belong.