Lyrics
Been walkin' since the A road
Was closed off to the town
The place was wiped clean off the map
Like sweat from my brow
Ain't no call from the workhouse
The dock has washed away
No jobs on in the city
Gotta work 'fore I get paid
One hand in my pocket
Dust track under foot
Drop my tailor-made
To crush it with my boot
Now I wouldn't say I'm religious
But there's always room for faith
When I'm on my last tether
Find me on my knees to pray
Now there's one thing I can tell you
The world has a funny way
Of showing you that others
Can be in a worser way
Lord, take me to the church yard
Where I can lift my spade
'Cause the people keep on dying
And they need a place to lay
Writer(s): Alice Armstrong
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