Inventing the Black Country

The Black Country

The

First

The chimney stack rises
Above the old waste land
Like a sign from an ancient world
No-one can read

Subsumed by man-made nature
The old slag heaps have been covered with grass and trees

Where hundreds of men used to work
And the swinging of the hammers sung a truth
An old man stands alone
Singing a testament to youth

While underneath the ground
The memories sleep
And on top of the ground
Sit the kings of the slag heap
Who forget their amnesia
Because it’s so much easier

And I’ve got pity for you
You can’t pity me
Just because I’m going down the Black Country

Spring forward
Fall back
You can’t build a fire on nutty slack

I’ve got pity for you
You can’t pity me