Week Fifteen: “Pale Lads”

Pale lads, shoveling coal
Pale lads, your death is foretold
Breaking your back for the rich men above you
Pale lads won’t ever grow old

I knew a pale lad named Martin O’Shea
broke free from the bowels and stole out one day
to the top deck where he met a fair maiden
bound for New York to be married away

The gal was not happy to be a man’s wife
had arms like a champ and a nose like a fife
She drank and she spit and she swore like his mother
Martin was never so thrilled in his life

Pale lads, shoveling coal
Pale lads, your death is foretold
Breaking your back for the rich men above you
Pale lads won’t ever grow old

They danced in the doorways and danced in the halls
He tickled her fanny, she tickled his balls
Then out of the night came a terrible sound
for a mountainous iceberg had torn through the walls

He held his dear tight as they started to float
She bit off his finger and fled to a boat,
said, “I hope you forgive me when this is all over
but pale lad, this isn’t the ending I wrote”

Pale lads, shoveling coal
Pale lads, your death is foretold
Breaking your back for the rich men above you
Pale lads won’t ever grow old

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