From Wales – Green Mountain, Black Mountain

Remember the procession of the old-young men
From dole queue to corner and back again,
From the pinched, packed streets to the peak of slag
In the bite of the winters with shovel and bag,

With a drooping fag and a turned-up collar,
Stamping for the cold at the ill lit corner
Dragging through the squalor with their hearts like lead
Staring at the hunger and the shut pit-head
Nothing in their pockets, nothing home to eat.

Lagging from the slag heap to the pinched, packed street.

Remember the procession of the old-young men.

It shall never happen again.