Years have gone by since my father’s passing.
but his story will be everlasting.
Children will ask from all around
why he chose to work deep beneath the ground?

“Old man Johnny how did you begin?”
“Would you like me to start from the beginning or the end?”

Working hard everyday,
only for a poor soul’s pay.
The nipping Winter had just begun.
The falling of snow had finally sprung.
My mom said goodbye and bundled me up tight,
sending me off as soon as the sun shed light.

Working at the mine was not an easy thing to do,
but my father had planned my future since I was the age of two.
Sadly he had died five years ago
from a blast in Tuckahoe.

“Old man Johnny how did you begin?”
“Would you like me to start from the beginning or the end?”

Now I’m at maturing age.
Holding in astounding rage.
I blame everyone for my father’s death,
especially the man that was there for his last breath.

Working. Working. Working.
All the men were shirking.
No water, nor food would we be given.
What the foreman did to us will never be forgiven.

Perhaps this is a story of pain and sorrow.
One that might not have a promise of tomorrow.
This account from a former coal miner,
if told by someone else would probably seem finer.