The summer sun beats down, in merciless attack
Sweat poured off his shoulders, and down his chiseled back
In his hands a shovel, on roadbed he did toil
For seven bucks an hour, as searing sun did boil.
No one knew his background, or where he went at night
Appeared each day at sunrise, to toil at dawn's first light
He never spoke a word, just went about his work
Always did as ordered, no task did e'er he shirk.
While working on some pilings, for bridge to cross Mill Creek
The workers stopped with wide-eyed stare, as man did up and speak
I'll work no more 'cause this ain't right, he said with deep disgust
Someone's changed the grade of steel, these pilings they will bust.
The boss he came a running, screamed, what's the matter here
What is this talk of faulty steel? is just a groundless fear
I might have saved a couple bucks, it's what I had to do
The public needs this road right now, the work it must go through.
The boss then turned and spoke to man with shovel in his hand
I admire anyone, who in his craw's got sand
But you're just a working man, you are not the boss
Pick up your check and hit the road, wrong person you did cross.
To the boss the man replied, this discourse it is through
I am but a working man, not smart as likes of you
Your intellect belongs, at bureaucratic desk
Your lunacy of logic, at best is Kafkaesque.
He walked o'er to a cement truck, sat behind the wheel
Drove down the embankment, into the piling's steel
The road it now is finished, the pilings were repaired
They buried man with shovel, beneath the bridge interred.
My father was a judge, he set a killer free
He swore to his creator, no more courtrooms he would see
For the killer killed again, a mother and her son
In penance for his legal deed, hard labor he'd begun.
Occasionally I'll travel, along Mill Creek I'll go
As I cross the Mill Creek bridge, I'll gaze down far below
No matter what our status, we all with demons live
And if our lives have meaning, we must ourselves forgive.
[This message has been edited by Tim (edited 07-07-99).]