Brisk winds fly...
Slice the sunshine rise.
Mild the morning.

An old man...
Opens his eyes and jumps out of bed...
Thinking...."Has it been a week?"

His hands calloused and sore...
Still, he thanks the Lord...
For his Sunday toil.

Energized...
He dresses quickly...
And he opens the door.

Steps outside...
Scans the countryside...
Dips his tobacco.

Begins with a stride...
A journey far and wide...
Into the city.

Birds sing their morning song...
He whistles along...
With a skip in his step.

Approaching the city...
He sees the bustling people...
Comes to a church and goes to the steeple.

Spits his tobacco...
He enters the the tower
Before the 900 o'clock hour.

As dark as the pitch...
Without a hitch...
He ascends the stairs.

At the silent bells...
He grabs the heavy rope and watches the time...
At 9:00, he arches his back, and tugs on the line.


He feeds a rapid reel...
Steel on steel...
Sets the rythym.

His muscles create...
Beautiful songs...
Every hour all day long.

Watching the time..
He straightens his back and releases the line...
At 600 o'clock sharp.

The slowing reel...
Softens the rythym...
Until the bells go silent.

At the end of the day...
The "Old Man Coil"
Thanks the Lord for his Sunday toil

He descends the stairs...
Without a hitch...
Outside its dark as the pitch...

He exits the tower...
Scans the city scape....
Dips his tobacco.

Leaving the steeple...
He sees fewer people...
As he approaches the country.

No birds are out whistling songs...
Aching back but he trudges along...
No pep in his step.

On last stride...
Ends his journey far and wide...
Back to the country.

Spits his tobacco...
Scans the countryside...
Opens his door.

He steps inside...
Slowly undresses...
In total exhaustion.

His hands bleeding and blistered...
But in a kindly whisper...
He thanks the Lord for his Sunday toil.

The old man...
Jumps into bed...
And closes his eyes to sleep...
Until the following week.

Brisk winds slice...
The starshine rise...
Mild the evening.