by Max Boyce I'll tell you all a story, 'tis a strange and a weird tale: Of a factory in my valley, not fed by road or rail. It's built beneath the mountain, beneath the coal and clay. It's where we make the outside-halves, that'll play for Wales one day. Down by the council houses, where on a quiet day You can hear the giant engines digging up the clay. No naked lights or matches where the raw material's found In the four-foot seams of outside-halves, two miles below the ground. We've camouflaged the mouth with stones, from Bradford Northern spies From plastic 'E-Type' Englishmen with promise in their eyes. And we've boarded up the entrance for the way must not be shown; And we'll tell them all to **** off and make their ******* own! My Dad works down in arms and legs where production's running high. It's he that checks the wooden moulds and stacks them forty high. But he's had some rejects lately, 'cos there's such a big demand; So he sells them to the northern clubs, and stamps them 'second-hand'. It's there where Harry Dampers works, it's where the money's best, But now his health is failing and the dust lies on his chest. But he'll get his compensation though his health's gone off the rails When he sees that finished product score the winning try for Wales. But now the belts are empty, came a sadness with the dawn. And the body-press is idle, and the valley's blinds are drawn. Disaster struck this morning when a fitter's mate named Ron Cracked the mould of solid gold, that once made Barry John. Old Harry Dampers (struck with grief), received the final call. And old Harry has been taken to the greatest outside-half of all. Whose hands are kind and gentle, though they bear the mark of nails, So Harry stamped him 'Number Ten', 'cos he was made in Wales. And the wheels will go on turning, and trams will run on rails, To that factory 'neath the mountain making outside halves for Wales.
The end