My last pair of boots, sit by the back door,
Faded yellow and black, via asphalt and straw.
They sprawl where their thrown, spread-eagled with socks,
The steel-toe caps are showing, through all the hard knocks.
I've worn out dozens of boots, by the score,
But these are my last, I won't need anymore.
Grafted all my life, sweated and bled,
Wrote a heart-wrenching poem, in a felt-tip of red,
On the back of a letter, from the Hospital, to my lad,
Just a change of appointment, addressed to me, his Dad.
But the words are unreadable, I can only guess at a few,
It was probably a masterpiece , though I haven't a clue.
Written through frustration, written through tears,
At Three in the morning, after too many beers,
About a change of career, getting a worthwhile job,
There must be an easier way, than to work like a dog.
Staying inside in the winter, not out in the fields,
Digging trenches and footings and dying on shields.
Dressing up smartly, using brain not just brawn,
Rising at noon, instead of teeth-chattering dawn.
But I forgot why I wrote it, the mind has many routes,
So I've just been out to buy, a new pair of boots. . . .

Two inches was the measure, of young Stevies blunder,
Digging out concrete, not knowing whats under.
He felt a nugget, that wouldn't yield to the Pick,
So he used the Jack-Hammer, until he got that "kick".
Caught fire on the spot, looked at me, shocked,
Died in flames, got a days pay docked.
Cut the main cable, Fifty millimetres, metric,
I know you hate to ask, but Friends aren't Electric.

Dennis stepped back, pleased with his graft,
Fell two hundred foot, down an unguarded shaft.
Been on the Grinder, cutting out steels,
So the Elevator boys could fix , their cogs and their wheels.
Never said a word, no shout or no fuss,
Dennis died like he lived, just one of us.

Me and Baz on a roof, we knew was asbestos,
Brittle like toffee, temperamental as Kate Moss,
Had no crawling boards, so we tip-toed like burglars,
Clinging on tightly, think Ivy on Pergola's.
I heard the crack, leapt to the hip-tile,
Baz clawed and scraped, resistance was futile.
They spread out the sand, where Baz hit the deck,
To mop up the blood, from a broken neck.
Health and safety, if's and but's,
Shoddy workmanship, taking short-cuts.
We have no say, we try our best,
Hard hats, harder boots and high-visibility vests,
Are all that we leave, not Time-Shares or Merc's,
Just daughters in tears, Dads not home from work.

Daves trowel has a hickory handle,
With a blade thats broader than most,
It could cover the **** of a Tipperary mare
Going down to the Steeplechase post.

I spin it around in my palm,
the trowel . . . not the horse,
Its old, from a bygone age,
When skill was the poor brother of force.

Now its weatherbeaten and corroded,
Every cut and nick still lingers,
Daves trowel shines as bright as day,
Im talking about my fingers.

My books are piled in the Hallway,
The Girlfriend wants me out,
She can keep all the household cargo
the insecurities and doubt.

I don't care much for chrome Toasters
Just give me my Damon Runyon,
Brendan Behan, James Joyce, Ernest Hemmingway,
Jack Kerouac and Jack London.

Albert Camus, Seamus Heaney, Patrick Kavanagh
Mayakovsky and Roger McGough,
the Steamer, bread -maker, Asparagus- spearer
Are all yours, I'm ******* off.

Just give me a dozen or so boxes,
Not those ***** looks,
Your welcome to the giant fridge-freezer,
All I want, are my books

I have known the snap of the cold,
I have lay, bitten by frost.
Shivering limbs, fold and unfold,
I have fought the fight and lost.

I have limped down a solitary street,
Fingers too numb to count the cost,
The only noise, my stamping feet.
I judge time by the moons height,

The hours, until Dawn brings heat.
I have used the shadows at night,
To hide from eyes, over-bold,
I do not wish to share my plight,

Swaddled in newspapers, my story untold,
It is a dish , best served . . .cold.

No medals for those who die on Site,
Just silence, till the Ambulance has gone,
Then, disconnecting like a crumpled kite,
The twisted scaffold, he had fallen from.

No more teasing his taste in Sandwiches,
Or Football team, that lost, again,
Just back to gable-ends steep pitches
As bosses begin, to shift the blame.

After the Funeral, we drank to him,
He, who was one of us,
Those who risk life and limb,
Gathered tightly, into a nucleus.

Hushed, we lifted Whiskey and Ales,
To a life, that rang with hammers and nails.

Go on, my Son, go out and box,
don't wave this chance good-bye,
Switch from Southpaw to Orthodox.

The Judges have it Fifty/Fifty, an equinox,
apply yourself. . . apply,
Go on my Son, go out and box.

Keep it crafty, like the fox,
acid to his alkali,
Switch from Southpaw to Orthodox.

Jab, Jab, Hook! Unpick the locks,
it's time to modify,
Go on my Son, go out and box.

Unloading pallets of concrete blocks
until the day you die ?
Switch from Southpaw to Orthodox.

Win this Round, escape the docks,
would I tell you a lie ?
Go on my Son, go out and box,
Switch from Southpaw to Orthodox.