Ewan MacColl — Kilroy Was Here

Who was here when they handed out the heavy jobs Jobs with the hammer, the pick and shovel Who choked in the foundry, froze at the fish dock Eight days to the week Who was here with a mile of rock above him Three foot seam in the darkness crouching Stinging sweat in his eyes, pounded rock in his spittle A hundred minutes to the hour Who was here in the furrowed field stooped over Pain shapes the question in in bone and muscle Roots and hands competing, fumbling, groping Twenty eight hours to the day Who was here in the world of steel and clamour Feeding leviathan in his cavern Breathing the hot sharp stink of metal Five weeks to the month Hey you, dogsbody, what do they call you? Who clears up the mess when the fight is over? Who carries the broom, the mop and the bucket? Thirty-six months to the year Smooth-faced old-boy men instructed him Geldings programmed his energy Coached in running by man whose arches had fallen Dead men told him how to live Kilroy, Kilroy, where has Kilroy gone? Kilroy was here, see there's his mark He came this way he was, wearing his number Did nobody see him pass?