The couplers lock and the air-brakes grate―
And I'm headed West on a Red Ball freight,
The rain can fall and the wind can moan,
For I chucked the grind, and I'm on my own.
No more figures to check and add,
Till my eyes go blind and my brain goes mad.
No more bosses to hem and say:
"We have been forced to reduce your pay.
"Just be thankful you've got a job."
No more cringing to some fat slob
Who holds my fate in his grubby hand―
I'm marked no more with the wage-slave's brand!
What do I care if my shoes are thin
And the holes in my clothes let the rain soak in?
I've served my time and I'm overdue,
Just a poor sap who used to stew
With the other poor worms that but and sell;
But I've told the boss he can go to Hell.
I've left him singing his hymn of Hate―
And I'm headed West on a Red Ball freight!