Hydrogen sulphide, the gas from bad eggs,
Enshrouding my body from head to my legs.
I’m shovelling grit, clinker and sand,
Working so hard in this steel-making land.

My  both eyes are sore; my hair is quite lank,
From this fume-filled air by a pickling tank.
The acid is strong; its burning my skin,
Its as hot as a hearth with a fire therein.

The iron work here is rusty and old,
Thick dust on the floor, bad for lungs I am told.
My workplace is greasy with oil and slime,
Like a pool of black filth in a garden of grime.

The bright orange ovens, fed by coke from ‘the boys’,
Are belching thick smoke with a whistling noise.
The canteen is near; I’ll abandon my task,
And take solace in there with my food and my flask!

Richard