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letra de (in remembrance of the) 40-hour week - lee bains iii & the glory fires

when you’re dead-broke, pushing pallets
in the dusty aisles of a cinderblock tomb
till your back is stove up
your coughs are black
and your thoughts are frayed
you can call on the magic city outlaws
drop-forged in this smog-choked valley
who scr-pped with the big mules
the gun thugs, and the scabs
for their honor and their share of pay
o, children, in the concrete and pines
working with our hands and on our feet
o, children, holding that holy old line —
in remembrance of the 40-hour week

when you’re rent-strapped, threading symbols
through the pale rows of a fl!ckering screen
till your wrists are trashed
your mind is static
and your eyes are stung
you can call on the etowah outlaws
who worked and spun their fingers raw
who walked out of red-brick caves
along the falling waters, and
into the light of a brand new day

o, children, in the concrete and pines
working with our hands and on our feet
o, children, holding that holy old line —
in remembrance of the 40-hour week

seems like lately
we get up
to go to work
get ready for work
we head to work
and we work
till we get off work
and take it to the house from work
we hit the kitchen
and we get to work
we talk about work
we worry about work
we dream about it
when you’re dog-sick, sn-tching plates
from the greasy jaws of this greedy post-life
and the quicker you rush them out
the quicker it gobbles them up
and you gather what it spills
you can call on the tallapoosa outlaws
who burnt their necks stooped to the black belt soil
who raised hammer and hoe to the landlords
hollering, god’s people shall eat of their own fields–
we shall eat of our own fields!

o, children, in the concrete and pines
working with our hands and on our feet
o, children, holding that holy old line —
in remembrance of the 40-hour week

- lee bains iii the glory fires

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