Oh mother my throat is full of lumps

As buckwheat in the sack

My tears are a twin-branched waterfall

And the coal-dust stains them black.

The band is playing Amazing Grace

And the lads are back below

But the little shit nearly closed the pit

And some of us have to go.

Better send me a parcel at Christmas time

Of coke and nutty slack

And please don't bawl if I end it all

On the Great Northern Railway track.

Farewell, Gloster Getters, the Pit-Head at Thorne,

Hang my boiler suit on the door

I'm sewn up slick as a eunuch's dick

And I can't go back no more.

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