Graft

Graft

And when the workingman grows tired
No longer duty bound to serve
His life to waste in endless toil
To ensure the boss is full

And the digger cuts another turf
For an infant who should still be here
But for the lack of basic care
By a fool in white and no time to spare

We’ve lost all faith in the upper class
To many times they fail
On the battlefields of France we fell
While they quaffed vintage wine

So raise a pint to the honest heart
Of the soul of this deep English soil
The results of a lifetime at the plough
And the selfless sweat and graft