It stands so proud, the wheels so still
A ghost-like figure on the hill
It seems so strange, there is no sound
Now there are no men underground

What will become of this pit-yard
Where men once trampled faces hard?
So tired and weary, their shift done
Never having seen the sun

Will it become like sacred ground?
Foreign tourists gazing round
Asking if men once worked here
Way beneath this pit-head gear

Empty trucks once filled with coal
Lined up like men on the dole
Will they e're be used again
Or left for scrap just like the men?

There'll always be a happy hour
For those with money, jobs and power
They'll never realize the hurt
They cause to them they treat like dirt

What will become of this pit-yard
Where men once trampled faces hard?
So tired and weary, their work done
Never having seen the sun

There'll always be a happy hour
For those with money, jobs and power
They'll never realize the hurt
They cause to them they treat like dirt