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Mining Poetry by Joel Tankersley
Piece of Worn Brass
The kids raid my pockets,
for a handful of change.
A dollar and knife,
that's nothings strange.
It's not a problem,
just let it pass.
Only thing left,
a piece of worn brass.
A piece of worn brass,
stamped with my name,
letters are crooked,
it spells just the same.
A piece of worn brass,
from the very first mine,
dull now in color,
it's been along time.
So long ago,
and so far way.
How long ago,
it's so hard to say.
It's been drug thought the ryolite,
the silver and gold,
the tungsten, the lead,
fissure and fold.
Been in the trona,
rolled over the coal,
from Montana stope,
to a New Mexico hole.
It's seen blue copper,
platinum and salt,
props and pillar
ground falls and faults.
That's all that's left now,
the kids got the change.
A piece of round brass,
isn't that strange?
A piece of round brass,
with only my name,
worn dull old brass,
heart of the flame.
The distance of travel,
as part of the plan,
with the name of a miner,
the sign of a man.
Copyright Joel Tankersley
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