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My old man was a good old man
Skilled in the moulding trade
In the stinking heat of the iron foundry
My old man was made
Down on his knees in the moulding sand
He wore his trade like a company brand
One of Cyclop’s smoky band
Yes, that was my old man

My old man wasn’t really old
T’was just that I was young
And anyone over 12 years old was halfway to the tomb
He was loyal to his workmates all his life
He gave his pay packet to his wife
Had a few jars on a Saturday night
Yes, that was my old man

My old man was a Union man
He fought hard all his days
He understood the system
And was wise to the bosses’ ways
He said: "If you want what’s yours by right
You’ll have to struggle with all your might
They’ll rob you blind if you don’t fight."
Yes, that was my old man

My old man was a proud old man
At home on the foundry floor
Until the day they paid him off
And showed him to the door
They gave him his cards and said: “Things are slack
We’ve got a machine now that’s learned the knack
Of doing your job, so don’t come back.”
The end of my old man

My old man was 51
And what was he to do?
A craftsman moulder on the dole in 1932
He felt he’d given all he could give
So he did what thousands of others did
He abandoned hope and the will to live
It killed him
My old man

My old man is dead and gone
Now I am your old man
My advice to you my child
Is to fight back while you can
Beware of the man with the silicon chip
Hold onto your job with a good firm grip
'Cause if you don’t you’ll have had your chips
The same as my old man

Text přidala barnajka

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