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Post Cod War Blues part 2 -  A mouthful of ashes.

Blood money isn't paid in silver these days,
just transferred straight to your account
with a sheet of computerised data
to inform you their agreed amount.

Now I'm standing over the fish sheds
to my front are near empty docks
behind, the steady running Humber,
to the left the gates and locks.
In my pocket this little piece of paper
telling me the price of my pride
and I'm standing out here in the open
‘cos I won't be seen crying inside.
So many years I served on those trawlers
the boy to man years of my life
I saw nearly more of my ship mates
than I did of my children and wife;
stood on the decks in the cold and the fog
and the rain and the sleet and the ice
gutting the fish for your table.
We accepted it wouldn't be nice.
I worked all those years for a living
because fishing was part of my blood
from a proud and vital community
surviving bad years and good.
Most of those years worked for one company,
most of that time in one or two ships
I was a regular trawlie
I didn't miss many trips.
Then they turned and told me you're finished
with a little just by the way
you were only a casual worker,
don't get any severance pay.
All these years we've fought for our justice
For recognition of our effort and pride
The numbers slowly dwindling.
One by one old comrades died:
And now they call this a victory
time to pay for my wasted years
so I'm standing atop of this fish shed
no shame in my bitter tears.

Before you add your vinegar
just grant me one little wish
enjoy your cod my brother
but think of one price paid for fish.
 


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Post Cod War Blues part 2 - A mouthful of ashes.