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Pickaxe Percussionists
April 8, 2015
Down in the deep mines is damp,
Slave, slog, strain 'till our limbs cramp
We moil away, night is day,
With the crag, we fray.
Solely by the glow of our lamp.
Our feet we stamp,
As we toil and pant.
The earth no longer like clay,
Deep down in the mines.
Upon the crest of dusk we may beckon for a pint,
Of a fierce liquid retaining an aroma like paint.
Our goblets we raise,
To bestow another glorious day praise.
Then clamber into our beds and faint.
Deep down in the mines.
© Wajida S., Shrewsbury, MA
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my poem is about the life of miners, it is written in the rondeau style.