A book of poetry and passages telling the world about my view on religion and Life
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Woodbine Man
The woodbine sticking out of his mouth
Sings with a song of smoke
Looking like Scrooge on a festive down
Sipping Whiskey from beneath his cloak
Walking with steps weighed down by guilt
He looks at his life and hates
Like a jailer he coughs and spits his mood
Whilst unlocking his factories gates.
Soon will arrive will be the family men
To earn an honest crust
To put a festive meal on the table
They are doing as they must
Woodbine man now stands
Looking down from his office cave
“Damn, They are working slow today!
“No thanks for the jobs I gave”
“If it wasn’t for me this town would die
And fall away from grace”
Yet it is only Woodbine Man
Who wants to be in this place.
The men down there grafting so hard
Look up at him with distorted face
No smile, no thanks, no hearty wave
Just hate and a full grimace.
The factory is old and cold and damp
No heating from winters chill
Where coughs and colds and flu like strains
Are strong enough to kill.
But Woodbine Man just wants his gang
To work until they bleed
He has no life, no family fun
His money is all he needs.
Woodbine man just sits alone
And mumbles curses to himself
No love or life or family
No photo’s on a shelf
His yellowed fingers make a fist
As the glass he grips with glee
Whiskey is his friend today
What will be, will be!
Just like the story of Ebenezer
Our smoking man has no friend
Just building his money with hate and gold
For it is soon to be his end
No worries about the men he hires
Or the death to them he brings
No care for a decent place to work
No song for his workers does he sing
The cold and bitter freeze in the air
Is no colder than his heart
Another man is bound to fall
“Just get him out on the cart”
“Don’t forget to finish your work
You have got to hit your quota!
Every man must work as one
Just like a well oiled motor.”
“Just remember today is Friday
You will all be expecting pay!
So put your backs into your work
And listen to what I say!”
Woodbine Man does himself no favour
For him there no curses not to be said
One day the workers will be happy and free
The day Woodbine Man is dead.
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