Hey Mister Sloan,
Give me a break,
I’m doing the best I can.

The smoke from your welders,
Its corrupting my lungs,
Each breath is more of a struggle.

The thunder of your presses,
It’s making me deaf,
My wife has to shout!

I can only count to eight,
Using my fingers,
That missing machine guard, well.

My stoop is getting worse,
I no longer can stand straight,
My back is broke by toting that weight.

My foreman’s lawn looks great,
He had me and the crew down Sunday,
To cut and trim and rake.

My kids need shoes,
But that money paid the Doctor,
The little one had the croup.

I hear you got a mansion,
On a lake in New York,
Six of us live in a one-bedroom flat off Averil.

I’m tired, about wore out,
Hardly ever see the sun,
Working these twelve-hour shifts.

I hear the Union can help me out,
Seeing as you think my predicament is fine,
Maybe I’ll sit-down or walk the picket line.

Hey Mister Sloan,
Give me a break,
I’m doing the best I can.

Roy Richard January 2023

Copyright Roy Richard