Mining Poetry by Joel Tankersley
The stockings in the stope were hung,
there with great flair.
The two young miner's who hung them,
were a greasy stinking pair
Their body's smelled of sweat,
and breath like a can of Cope.
One was hung over big time,
and the other smelled of dope.
The wish list nailed to the raise,
in the chute on a track drift going south.
The shifter named Big Jack,
and the warehouseman named Bob Louth.
The muck crew pulling chutes stopped by,
and all sat there on the timber pile.
Diamond drill, the hagby bunch,
finally showed up a smile
And they said Merry Christmas you two farmers!
You road bums off the tramp
The season is upon us,
and you two aren't worth stamp.
You got two stockings hung,
on the end of the old wood chute.
Hoping for bad women,
liquor and a brand new tin whistle flute.
Why don't you want for something nice instead,
the Hagby crew advised.
In the season of all joy,
and all you want is for your demise.
You want what you know,
and you ought to want world peace.
The liquor will surely kill you,
and the women will pocket fleece.
Come on boys, it's the season,
and your good nature should display.
Ok, sighed one miner,
the tin whistle we'll give away.
Copyright Joel Tankersley