He’s pale an’ cold, he’s all beat up, a wasted, done an’ bled.
’Tis tough a chore, to muck his flesh an’ nothin' more be said.
He gave his all, God bless his soul, ain't nothin' left of worth.
A coin or two to dig his grave an’ put him in the dirt.
Of graves, I’ve dug the many, them be paupers, nearly all.
A labourer since I a lad, me pick me wherewithal.
In hobnail boots an’ dungarees, me head, a black beret
A rovin’ some, in search of work, whatever came me way.
Down the pit, I dug for coal with men as tough as any.
When found me then an alehouse, where drank me hard-earned penny.
In rough a gang, diggin' sewers through many town an’ city.
Beggin', too, when work was scarce as were the coins of pity.
Of swell an’ squall in weathers all, I toiled the seven seas.
Dug ruptured hulls from creakin’ ice, I thought I’d fuckin’ freeze.
I mined through rock for riches, found but veins of hard despair
An’ broke near every bone I had, an’ some beyond repair
Nay loved me once a maiden fair, who'd love the likes of me?
To brothels then when I would long some female company.
When down an’ out, without a hope, them lawmen moved me on.
‘The likes of you ain’t welcome here, begone ya bum, begone!’
Dug ditches on a chain gang, laid a thousand miles of track.
I cursed them rocks of ages, near a broke me fuckin’ back.
I scaled them concrete towers as a hodman bearin' pain.
With tunnel men we dug an’ dug 'till dug we back again.
A gambler's life when I’d be flush though luck nay came me way.
Showed my disgust with fist an’ foot, kept not me strength at bay.
Threw punches, aye, at my regrets an’ wrestled with me woes.
No matter what, e'en offered help, it always came to blows.
Sunk wells to sup an’ dykes to drain, as oft’ I’ve done afore.
Dug meself from many a hole ’till I could dig no more.
And all for nowt, to cuss an’ swear, ’twould drive a feller mad.
Of aches an’ pains an’ foul a mouth, ’twas all I ever had.
I've done enough, I'm all worn out, no more a diggin’, me.
Let come what may I shan’t complain, whatever that will be.
Woe on to me in hardship or woe on to me in crime.
It matters none, I jest you nay for I have done me time.
I'm pale an’ cold, I’m all beat up, a wasted, done an’ bled.
The truth I speak, to muck me flesh an’ nothin' more be said.
I gave me all, God bless me soul, I'm nothin' now of worth.
What you say, come dig me grave for I'm done with shovellin' earth.
-
Author:
Tony Grannell (
Offline) - Published: October 6th, 2026 10:37
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 14
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Teddy.15, Kevin Hulme, Tristan Robert Lange, Paul Bell
Offline)
Comments8
Colorful language and imagery fills this poem of good rhyme. I found it of particular interest since I have done some of this work in my younger days. Worked in a mine, had a friend that was a grave digger, dug out septic, concrete and foundations. A great read with a great dialect as well. The poem finishes where it began coming full circle and ending in one's own hole so to speak, A fave my friend.
Hello, Soren,
That you've experience a lot of what I wrote, gladdens me that maybe you were a part of this poem unbeknownst to me at the time, the poem being an amalgamation of characters - you never know, well, if not, you are now. Your fine response is very much appreciated, my friend.
Fond regards,
Tony.
It is always the greatest of pleasures reading your poems. I feel they hold so many common elements that I have lived they are wonderfully written and I step right in.
Tony your poetry is profoundly wonderful, your imagery language and brilliant theme is truly a joy to read. My father was a coal miner. ❤️
Hello, Teddy,
Your father must have been a tough man to withstand such harsh conditions. That your family knows the true meaning of hard toil finds me delighted that I posted this poem. Thank you very much for dropping by, kind of you indeed.
Fond regards,
Tony.
Hey, Tony! I really like your poem, has a great cadence to it. For me, it tells the story of someone who has done nothing but work hard and now its time to rest.
Hello, Aziza,
I am very happy you like my poem, very kind of you to read and respond and I do thank you ever so much.
Fond regards,
Tony.
(Nothing that a bulldozer and mechanical digger plus an education could not have solved…)
Life was ‘nasty brutish and short’ (slightly out of original context - sorry) for a very long time and may be so even today for many if one ferrets around a little.
Laid out factually your write has complete cohesion of theme which makes it very satisfying in a perverse kind of way.
Cheers.
Dave
Hello, Dave,
Some of those machines frighten me, especially the ones that can fall and strip a tree of its branches in minutes - even lumberjacks are losing their jobs. Between machines and A I, the future looks dim. I really appreciate you dropping by, truly.
Do take care now,
Tony.
Another fine Poem Sir. Enjoyed.
Glad you enjoyed it, Kevin and thank you very much.
All the best,
Tony.
My Pleasure.
Not just dirt and rock but a whole existence digging through adveristy and circumstance ending up in the final excavation of the grave. If it be about toil, endurance, and mortality we must recognise on whose back the world has been built eon upon eon. My father was a masterblaster both in the mines and underwater. He was cremated, though, by burial and hospital law arising from the Lockdowns of 2020.
Hello arqios,
You are absolutely correct, on their backs the world as we know it. Your father must have been extreemly fit, knowledgeable and trustworthy, such a dangerous job - hats off to him. Thank you ever so much for your fine response.
Wishing you much happiness,
Tony.
Tony, this poor sod deserved retirement about six occupations ago. 😂 By the time he asked somebody else to pick up the shovel, I certainly wasn’t going to argue with him. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️
Hello, Tristan,
I would have taken the shovel myself and buiried him with full honours for free. Very kind of you do drop by, always most welcome.
All the best,
Tony.
Ah, Tony, you can take the shovel off the man, but you can't take the man off the shovel.
Anyone who goes a mile down to dig out coal is a man to be reckoned with.
The body can take so much, and if the shovel don't kill you, the dust will.
Great journey through life.
Well said, Paul, if the shovel don't kill you the dust will - coughing their selves to death. I really appreciate you dropping by.
All the best,
Tony.
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.