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.
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