The Grandson’s of Pullman Porters
And the grandsons of engineers – at the hotel
in the lateness of this summer eve…
walk into the hotel burdened with tools
and paperwork, and stay…
where no one is really from ..
for a rest period.
and we do ride a magic carpet made from
rocks, hearts of trees and steel –
victims of time and innovation.
They call it progress –
we call it labor …
If John Henry only knew …
he had dug his own grave.
His pride was no value to business,
but his story a lesson…
Good morning America,
you have no idea what rolls
on your ribbon rail –
that is tied across your mountains –
hills and plains.
You loved your railroads and your
children dreamed of employment –
to be the next Casey… draped in
history and pride.
We roll past towns and farms,
all the places that used to be…
That still have names …
but have no where to go …
Locked out of opportunity –
while goods and services are
rendered… in steel cars and boxes –
Your native son is dead…
your cities are drowning in debt ..
While they sell your American dream…
back to you for pennies on their dollar.
and workers toil in midnight shifts –
in the noon day sun… miles away…
out of view .. in sweat shops …
in orient plantations. While poisons
are delivered on time –
to your decimated soils..