Kevin Michael Bloor

Death of the Miner

My dad was a miner; could do nothing finer

while wife kept on pleading that mouths needed feeding.

But offspring grew older, so dad became bolder.

From pit work retired, as driver, got hired.


His days though we're numbered and sorrow that slumbered

soon woke up and waited; for father was fated

to perish like poet.  Before we could know it

his ties he did sever, then drove off forever.


Now mother did smother both sisters and brother

with love, sweet and tender; became our defender!

But I took to thieving, despite I was grieving

a heart full of giving and endless forgiving.


I sold stuff for money, since scratting’s not funny

for kids with no father, with mother, who'd rather

sip whiskey than water. And there was that daughter!

Who turned up with baby, when mother said maybe


we'll move from the city where there is more pity

for life's lamest losers, more beggars than choosers.

Mum went there with working, while I stayed with shirking;

could do nothing finer, since death of the miner.

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