WHEN THE TIME-BOMB GOES OFF.
The bike just sits there,
dust covering its lovely sheen,
puffing up the Fintry Hills
well, it's no longer my scene.
Y'see, as a Clydeside apprentice
I proudly learnt the tradesman's skill,
little did I know then
the price, asbestos lungs that kill.
Now I just sit through the painful day
gasping each mouthful of air, wondering
how can I make the bastards pay.
They knew it was a killer
a time-bomb in our lungs
but, because it was so quick and cheap
they firmly held their tongues.
So what, if it cost the workman's life,
there's always a couple of new workers
in the care of the worker's wife.
Please try to understand my anger
as I and others bear their cost,
a slow death from asbestos lungs,
a vibrant life lost.
Anguish for family and friends,
all in the name of profit:
now that really does offend.
Our anger without direction
is like a blind archer behind the bow,
we have to use our anger
to smash the status-quo.
Perhaps making my dying public,
might provoke righteous indignation
at a system that puts profit
before the health of a nation.
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