Oh, the work force down in Labor Town

went off to seek their fortune.

In mills and stills and mining hills,

the summer sun was scorchin.’

When hope ran dry, they turned their eye

back toward the place they’d left.

But the streets were dead and the lakes were dry,

the whole scene was bereft.

Labor Town had seen its day,

money piling up like hay.

Now the crop had gone away,

the buildings fit for arson.

Two men roamed the dusty street,

forlorn, hungry, in defeat.

Beneath a tree, they had a seat,

beggar man and parson.

When one leaves his place of birth,

pledged to roam the challenged earth,

there is one key step to take:

make sure it is no mistake.

Some roads lead to castle, palace,

others bordered, oft, by malice,

run downhill to fiery ends,

empty of both love and friends.

Labor Town once prompted toasts.

Now it’ home to angry ghosts.

Those who jettison their past

find a future that won’t last.