By Rumple Oxbridge , imaginary rhymer-in-residence at The Pacific
Old King Coal was a polluted old soul
And a sick old soul was he.
He called for his pick, and he called for his shovel
And he called for his draglines three.
Every dragline needed one man,
Just one man and greed
To scrape the heads of mountains off
And dump them in the streams.
Old King Coal was a desperate old soul
And a tricky old soul was he.
He called for his purse, and he called for his pol
And went digging in D.C.
But every tyrant some day dies
For truth cannot be buried.
The fiddlers in the greening hills
Make music and are merry.
[To hear a little merry fiddle music– “Cripple Creek”
by Gid Tanner and the Skillet Lickers–
click link below . . .]