It weren’t a decent God, Ancil cried,
That let children and coal towns die.
And it weren’t coal dust, it were blacken gold
That swirled and rolled from the tipple hill,
Past the movie house, to Mocky’s Grill.
It weren’t a dream. It were reality.
It weren’t FDR, it were Ethel Mae,
Who faced the fear, and never failed to pray.
And, it weren’t hard times. It were life’s times
That swirled and rolled, with its ebbs and flows
The tears of pain and joy that a Mother knows.
It weren’t a dream. It were reality
For Victor, Charlie Boy, and me.
And it weren’t John L. Lewis, it were Daddy Bud,
Who toiled for coal in the dark, dank mud.
And it weren’t picket lines, it were battlefields
That swirled and rolled o’er the strong and weak
Through the Winding Gulf up to old Paint Creek.
It weren’t a dream. It were reality
For Victor, Charlie Boy, and me.
Them summer days we were living free.
Now the Sun falls hard from the coal camp sky.
The harsh truth becomes the harshest lie.
It weren’t the coal camp trinity. It were you and me
That swirled and rolled, and faced the strife
Along the coal dust covered roads of our lives.
Lay lilacs at the ruins of the Island Creek Company Store.
Listen for voices you long to hear once more.
As we swirl and roll in different spheres,
Who will understand and convey the loss
Of a saving God, a President, and a union boss.
It weren’t a dream. It were reality
For Victor, Charlie Boy, and me.
Them summer days we were living free.
Long before wants gave way to needs.