TIPS AND HOLES
Survival to our town they say
That's what the tips and holes portray,
These huge grey mounds of china clay
Are churned up here by night and day.
They say they're really white, you know,
Just like the mountains covered in snow,
But unlike those they grow and grow
They tower above the village below.
They mention that they're made of gold
When holes are dug and some is sold,
And we believe all we are told
Cause we grew out of the self-same mould.
We will be rich, warm, secure,
For this clay is white and gradely pure,
"Will last for years", its' overture,
Without it, there is no cure.
But now it's 1994
Security gone out of the door
The promised sangrila no more,
The skills are wasted to the core.
The white and gold a realistic grey,
The men disbanded in dismay
The tips and holes will ever stay
A travesty where ever they lay.
And so the blighted villages here
Let drop one silent stoic tear,
The children that you now do rear
Have no prospects, have just fear.
The china clay destroyed the trust
By blindly seeking after lust,
They took away our only crust
Leaving crumbs and grey powdery dust.
There's still some working in the holes,
Those workers now treated worse than moles,
Whilst directors ride roughshod in their rolls,
And managers gleefully take their tolls.
The men downcast, apathetic and sad,
See only a future going bad,
Beneath their pose they're hopping mad,
Remembering better times they had.
The legacy left in a Cornish mind
Is betrayal and trickery of many a kind,
The china clay that once did bind
Has tore family apart - Were we that blind?
The promises were never kept
Company policy whilst men wept.
Our memories will never forget.
You'll see, our time will come yet!
~ Annemarie 1994 © ~
