There's a laboring force
That runs out its course
Through men that I know
Who are worked to the bone

With fingers that bleed
To satisfy hungers need
From the calloused hands
Of the working man

Bringing to light
From morning to night
Collars of blue
Work's all they do

The working man
Making his plans
Of the things that he can't
While dreaming he can

With the breaking of backs
Over what all they lack
Life is nothing but hard
In the labor yard

Where far less is saved
In the give away
Taking its toll
On both young and old

With the showing of hands
Those living in debt
More often than not
Is the working man's lot

With the dreams they hold
That maybe one day
They'll have enough saved
To pay for their grave